


For the love of Christ

by lucrethia



Category: Cursed (TV 2020), Cursed - Thomas Wheeler
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Anger, Angst, Blood, Come Eating, Dissociation, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, Guilt, Hallucinations, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Possessive Gawain, Public Blow Jobs, Public Humiliation, Religion, Religious Fanaticism, Scars, Self-Flagellation, Self-Hatred, Spit As Lube, Unrequited Love, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27258100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucrethia/pseuds/lucrethia
Summary: Lancelot knew he should never trust anyone; the last time he trusted someone, well… he paid the price, which was far too high. He should have known that the Green Knight was no exception to the rule— Now it is too late. What choice does he have? In spite of the burning of betrayal that inflames his chest, in spite of the shame of having been deceived, once again, the humiliation that he feels is not enough to extinguish the spark of hope that remains in him. If he obeys, will the knight be proud of him?
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 67
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the translation of my fic "for the love of Christ". It’s not very long, unlike the others, so I decided to try to translate it. I speak very little English so please forgive any vocabulary or conjugation error, or better, let me know so I can correct and progress. I hope I did not make a major mistake and that this translation reflects the original story and the intention I tried to put into it. Good reading :)

Lancelot knew he should never trust anyone; the last time he trusted someone, well… he paid the price, which was far too high. He should have known that the Green Knight was no exception to the rule— Now it is too late. What choice does he have? In spite of the burning of betrayal that inflames his chest, in spite of the shame of having been deceived, _once again,_ the humiliation that he feels is not enough to extinguish the spark of hope that remains in him. If he obeys, will the knight be proud of him? Will it make him gain his affection for not having his respect? He doubts it, but he cannot silence his feelings, even those which he has made sure to hide in the depths of his heart full of sin throughout these months, those the same ones that the knight gave birth to and grew in him for the sole purpose of pushing him to degrade himself a little more. All this was just a perverse game, a cruel farce of which he is the consenting victim. Gawain was gentle and attentive, patiently listening to him confide his fears to him, telling him his life, the abuses he suffered and of which he is now fully aware, he comforted him with fine words when he collapsed, crying under the weight of guilt, crushed by the burden of Father Carden’s upbringing, wounded by the hatred and constant rejection of the Fay; but it was only this: beautiful words, empty of meaning, He clung to empty words as he once clung to those of his father promising him redemption. And today he finally sees the purpose of all this, the game is coming to an end and the winner finally drops his cards. Lancelot can finally see the design as a whole, in all its ugliness. The words of the knight are like blades, they tear his chest and plant themselves in his heart, leaving him suffocating and broken in the midst of all these hostile and mocking glances. He can hear the sneaky sneers of some, the insulting and degrading remarks of others, but all agree on the same objective: _revenge._ It is a cheap shot, the knight calculated each movement to perfection, waiting for the fruit to be ripe to pick it and savor the sweetness, the moment when he would be the most vulnerable. Lancelot lowered his guard, his barriers falling one by one, disarmed by the Green Knight with disconcerting ease. He first gave him the benefit of the doubt, then his trust, and finally… his heart. Unfortunately it is too late to take it back, the young man knows that it no longer belongs to him, the green-eyed man who seems to read in him as in an open book now owns it, and he too knows it.

“If you want to prove your loyalty to me, kneel and kiss my feet.”

Lancelot leads an inner struggle lost in advance, he tries in vain to repel his visceral need to obey the order of this man which he now considers as his only reason to live; the flame which drives out the darkness of his damned soul. He struggles, but feels his knees bend against his will , under the weight of a conditioning engraved in him with red iron. He feels his back arching and stooping as if the sincere and devoted love that swells his heart was suddenly too heavy to allow him to stand upright, stifling his pride and the shame of being so weak, leaving only pain and… hope, again… Vacillating, but unable to go out, even when his eyes cross those of the knight, even when the fun he sees there squeezes his throat to the point that the air seems to become scarce in his lungs, forcing him to breathe faster; his heart beats like the wings of a panicked bird as his head begins to turn. His ears buzze with laughter and booing that assail him from all sides when his lips land on Gawain’s left foot; he represses the panic that makes him want to roll in a ball to make himself as small as possible, to hide in a mouse hole, to disappear. When he raises his head to contemplate the man with the enchanting eyes who dominates him, the latter utters a disapproving sound while addressing to him a small amused smile, of those that could be addressed to a young child with a slow spirit, who did not respect a directive because some subtlety of the title will have escaped him. Lancelot does not care about the intention behind this smile, if he is meant to humiliate him a little more, to remind her how stupid he is or to prove to him that Gawain does not need to hit him so that he is submissive and docile as the dog that he is, that he’s always been? It doesn’t matter, because Gawain smiles at him, and that’s all that matters. The hand of the knight meets his face and he closes his eyes, squeezing his jaw and preparing for the blow; but he feels no pain, only the gentle rubbing of the thick fabric of his hood on his hair as he removes it from him, Stripping him of his armor, the only thing that gives him a semblance of protection from the gaze of others, as if not seeing them meant not being seen. He feels naked and vulnerable, but that’s what his knight wants, then he doesn’t flinch despite his instinct to stand up and run.

"I seem to have said 'my feet'. Thanks to you, I have only one eye left, but your brother Sel left me two feet."

The gentle voice and the teasing tone of the knight are not enough to mask the sharp points of the reproach, it is like a blow to the face, making Lancelot the same devastating effect as the flail of the trinity guard connecting with his jaw the evening he saved the boy. The feeling is so real that he tastes the blood in his mouth, before realizing that he just bit his lip. Guilt floods every fiber of his being and he plunges forward, fervently kissing the other foot of the knight, like Mary of Bethany, the sinful woman kissing the feet of Christ; he does not wait for Gawain to forgive him as Jesus did for her, but he hopes that this brings him closer, a first step towards absolution, towards the love of his lord. He can see the scarlet stain that his lips have left on the skin and Lancelot to the impression of having profaned something sacred, divine, of having let his unclean blood tarnish the brilliance of Gawain. This reminds him of the representation of Christ on his cross, the blood that flows from the wound to the spot where the nail pierces the pulpit and the bones. He lets a finger run on the white skin, along the trace, as if upset by the vision and what it implies for his tortured soul. Then he lays his palms on the ground and abandons himself; feeling divine grace as he has never done in all his years of prayer and atonement. He leans a little more and undertakes to wash away this affront with devotion, leaving his tongue to erase any trace of his demonic corruption. It is only by standing up that he regains consciousness of what surrounds him. The Fay are numerous, hilarious; the din of their jubilation is stunning. He is grateful when he feels Gawain’s hands readjusting the hood on his head with gentle gestures, hiding his infamy at the same time as his red and wet eyes in the eyes of the world.

"Good boy."


	2. broken thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I hope you will enjoy this new chapter and, as with the first one, please forgive me for my very limited knowledge of the English language ;) Feel free to let me know what you liked... or didn't like, constructive feedback is always appreciated and will help me progress! I may not be around for a while as I have people at home, but I will do my best to keep writing as much as possible! Happy reading :)

Gawain knows better than anyone the havoc that feelings can wreak. He himself has been confronted many times with situations where love forced him to swallow his pride and submit. He would have done this for Bergerum if only Arthur had let him go through with it...

However, the situation is somewhat different with Lancelot. The young man seems to swing from one extreme to the other. Gawain is well aware that he never lets his feelings get the better of him, though, as the former monk is certainly the best of all he knows at repressing his urges; but there are exceptions, as with Squirrel... The ashman had been ready to give his life for this boy he didn't know; he doesn’t do anything half-heartedly. How far would he be willing to go for love?

So he set out to get closer to the ashes, gradually gaining his confidence. It wasn't very difficult: an attentive ear, a few soft and reassuring words, while all around him was hatred, rejection and disgust; the only living creature that seemed to enjoy his company was the great black horse. Gawain could almost have taken pity on him, but every time he saw him, the knight was overcome with a burning urge to make him crawl at his feet... No, not the urge -- the need to subdue him, to humiliate him, to take away every trace of that misplaced, almost childish, innocence he saw in his eyes. He is not innocent, he is not weak, he is not... broken; he has no right to be, not when he is responsible for what Gawain has to endure day after day, not when he is the cause of all his suffering.

It wasn't supposed to go that far in the first place, was just a bad joke meant to appease his frustration at the monk's expense. After all, it was justice, justice that was sweet and merciful if he thinks about it. It is only through this man's fault that he is what he is today. A weak, traumatised, broken Fay... Only a shadow of his former self, Gawain thinks angrily.

He had finally brought the monk to his knees, had shown everyone the pathetic thing that Lancelot was, had proved that he was in every way superior to the ash man; and things should have stopped there... But when the monk bent down by his own choice to lick his own blood off the knight's foot, with an almost ecstatic look on his face, Gawain felt powerful, alive as he had not been since Brother Salt. Seeing this warrior whom he had never succeeded in defeating by force submit and humiliate himself in front of the crowd at his simple request was not simply satisfying. Gawain had to admit that he had felt excited, something he hasn't felt since his return from the dead, his body burdened with? phantom pains and his mind disturbed by unpredictable fits of terror.

His nights are haunted by the presence of Brother Salt and his God’s fingers, by the smell of his burnt flesh, by his disgusting screams that perforated his eardrums. He remembers his own death, can still feel the cold and loneliness, the unchanging darkness. Sometimes at night, he can feel them wrapping him like a shroud around him and then his own heart-rending cries wake him up, crying, trembling like a dead leaf, dry and battered by the autumn wind. He hides his weakness from everyone as best he can, wearing a confident and serene mask because he is too ashamed of what he has become to ask for help.

So when he saw Lancelot, so strong, so beautiful, stooping down to crawl at his feet in the hope of a smile, a loving gesture on his part, when he understood that this model of physical perfection would be ready to satisfy all his demands in the name of the unconditional love he feels for the broken man he has become, he felt the need to dirty this man, to dishonour him, to break him and maybe then... he would feel whole again.

The way Lancelot looks at him, with bliss, devotion and fear, it makes him feel like the knight he used to be, the one who inspired respect in his people, fear in his opponents, admiration, even love in equal parts. Gawain thinks back on all that he has lost because of him while watching the scene unfold before his eyes. Things will become interesting in a few minutes.

The most frustrating part of all this is that he has no physical after-effects -- Nimue has fixed him well. It is all in his head, the terror that paralyses him at the idea of having to fight again. Every time, he sees the defeat inflicted on him by Lancelot, the moment that changed his life.

The knight lets out a raging breath. He's not even a man anymore -- hasn't taken anyone to his bed in months; the humiliation would be too hard a blow for his already bruised pride. He doesn't know what it is -- the stress, the self-loathing, the shame, or some bad joke from Brother Salt etched in his mind that even Nimue couldn't erase. Torturing Lancelot, however, is a substitute for him. It gives him almost as much pleasure as fucking; an unhealthy pleasure, he is aware of, but Gawain lets it slide it as he reminds himself that he doesn't physically abuse the young man.

He thinks back to what he said to Lancelot in the tent that night, that just because he did nothing wrong to the children himself did not make him innocent when he watched his brothers kill them without intervening; that he was as guilty as they were. He knows in his heart that there is a parallel here, even if the consequences of his actions are far less grave -- after all, no one ends up dead.

So he continues to watch a group of Fay mocking Lancelot, standing back a little. Then a first blow lands and the knight advances, blocking the monk's arm before he can retaliate. The monk instantly freezes, sending a shiver of jousting satisfaction throughout Gawain’s body. He looks at him, a complacent smile on his lips.

"There is undoubtedly a peaceful way to settle this dispute. Doesn't your religion say that it is customary to turn the other cheek in such circumstances?” Gawain tilts his head slightly, looking for the monk's blue eyes under his bonnet, the disapproving look in his eyes.“Only a man of little faith can follow the way of his God as he pleases, or turn away from it when it suits him..."

The Fey chuckle as the monk drops his gaze with a guilty look on his face, his arm going limp in Gawain's grip. His opponent, a hot-blooded young Tusk who regularly goes on patrols around the camp with the knight, quickly understands the insinuation.

He steps forward and grabs the Ashman’s chin, forcing him to look him in the face. It is so easy to manipulate him; whereas it would be a child’s play for him to put the Tusk down, Lancelot gives up so willingly after only a few words from him... He doesn't react to provocations, just lets himself be humiliated without a flinch -- all for his approval, for his pleasure. Once again, a heat wave rises up along his back, invades his belly and goes down, nearly provoking an involuntary reaction that Gawain has no longer expected. The feeling of hope that fills him is almost painful after months of trying to accept the fact that this part of him had died in the paladin camp that fateful night.

In the meantime, the other Fey has stopped insulting the monk and is raising his fist. He does it slow enough to clearly show the monk his intention, taunting him as he knows that Lancelot will not move.

The blow is violent and it lands on his cheek -- the _other_ cheek. His head goes to the side, the shocking impact making him wobble, and Gawain can see how shame and rage bring tears to his eyes as he stands up and turns towards him, waiting for an approving reaction from the knight.

Gawain lets go of his wrist and puts a hand on his shoulder, smiling gently, as if he were congratulating a child who has managed to recite his lesson without making a mistake.

"Well, that's it. The matter is settled."

Fascinated, he rubs his thumb on the bleeding cut on the young man's lip and looks at the carmine liquid. Something akin to gratitude flashes in Lancelot's eyes, as if this simple gesture was enough to erase everything else and fill the need for affection for which his heart is begging so hard. Poor little thing.

But he keeps this thought to himself and simply looks at him with calm, gentle eyes.

"Good boy.”


	3. Do paladins wash themselves with their clothes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your kind comments, they are precious to me and make me want to continue writing! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Do not hesitate to report any translation errors ;)

Its back is a patchwork of white, pink and beige scars that cross and intertwine to form random patterns, hollows and ridges, a landscape of desolation, a field of ruin. Father always said that it was a work to the glory of God, which he shaped with his devotion and suffering and which he improved and embellished with each new step he took on the road to his redemption.

For Lancelot, it is a reminder of his ugliness and unworthiness, a proof of his infamy if proof were needed, the mark of his perversion engraved with iron, fire and leather in his skin and flesh.

To expose him thus in full view of everyone is terrifying, he is literally tetanized; what the knight asks of him is beyond his strength.

Panic takes over him, filling his lungs; he struggles to suck in the air but only manages to let out a hissing, strangled breath. He remains there, panting at the water's edge and unable to move until Gawain puts his hand on his shoulder.

He glances at him desperately, begging, though far from yielding; but the knight doesn't concede. He gently slides the tips of his fingers under the hem of his undershirt and begins to pull it up, baring his belly and torso.  
  


« Raise your arms. »

And Lancelot complies, letting himself be guided by the authoritative voice and the gentle but firm touches of the man. It is a relief to be taken care of in this way.

He feels the looks weighing down on him but he doesn't move; he simply lowers his head once the knight has finished stripping his upper body. The hardest part is done, all he has to do is enter the water and if he squats, he should be able to steal most of his back from prying eyes. But as he moves forward, Gawain blocks him with one hand on his waist and he freezes, trying to control the heat wave that seems to radiate from the point of contact and viciously descend towards his groin.  
  


«Do the paladins bathe in their clothes? »

His eyes widen and he barely refrains from begging the other Fay not to force him to undress completely. Lancelot knows already that if he starts speaking, his voice will only be a pathetic groan, it will just make what little esteem the knight seems to have for him disappear. He cannot contradict this man, either -whatever Gawain asks, he will obey, because it is the only thing he can give him, the only way he can show him that he can be good, the only way he knows to express his twisted and unnatural feelings for this man.

But he can't control the shaking of his hands and the other man realises it. Sighing exaggeratedly, the Green Knight grabs him by the top of his trousers and pulls him closer. He skilfully unties the lacing, letting his fingertips touch the soft skin of the former monk's lower abdomen, taking his breath away and rushing more blood to his cheeks -and another part of his anatomy that he desperately wishes he didn't have at that moment. Then, when his work is finished, he casts an amused and condescending glance at the young man who is by now red with shame.

Lancelot feels like a child waiting for punishment. And it would have been the case if his father had stood in front of him instead of the great Fay. He can hear the laughter and mockery of others all around, some of them whistling obscenely, reminding him that they are there and that they see him in all his degradation... And how could he not notice this? He is naked, exposed, with nothing to hide his half-hard sex and his ravaged back. Shame and anger gnaw at him inside, bubbling under his skin, ready to overflow. He imagines the reassuring weight of his swords in his hands, the sharp blades lacerating the Fay and erasing the perverse joy from their faces, replaced by fear and pain; it would be so easy for him to kill them all, so familiar... It only takes one word from the knight to defuse the suffocating anger.

« Lancelot... »

He raises his eyes timidly, but the dark-haired man doesn't seem angry -rather strangely satisfied; and this may be the worst of it all, because this kind of humiliating situation seems to be the only time he can feel at the centre of Gawain's attention and for that he knows he would be ready to start again, to let him do whatever he wants with him, to treat him like an animal if that's what he likes. This boundless devotion that he feels freezes his heart because it is far too similar to the one he felt for his father, and he has gained nothing but disappointment and sadness from it... But how can he fight against it?

Absently, he notices that his sex is no longer hard. The marks on his back won't disappear, however. There is no point in waiting any longer, it only delays the inevitable.

Lancelot takes a deep breath to give himself courage, forcing himself to think of Gawain's smile and walks forward, one foot after the other, eyes downcast like the condemned man walking towards the scaffold, ignoring the laughter and the degrading allusions. He grasps a few sentences despite his efforts to remain indifferent to their sneering.

« Look at his back! It's disgusting! » 

« It wasn't Carden's dog, it was his whore. » 

« He likes it when you undress him, it seems! You should fuck him, Gawain, maybe that would get the stick out of his ass! »

It hurts _so much._ Much more than anger, it is the pain that now threatens to overwhelm him in the face of the cruel words of his own people.

Lancelot enters the river and crouches down, immersing his filthy body, filled with gratitude for the semblance of protection the water gives him. He closes his eyes and swallows the lump in his throat, which threatens to suffocate him.

He hates himself for what he is, and understands the Fay's resentment, it is justified, but even if he deserves all this, the weight remains heavy to bear. He keeps his eyes closed and concentrates on the image of the knight in his head to fight back the tears that well up.

Lancelot cannot let them see him cry; it is the last bit of dignity he has left. His tears will remain his secret, shed in the protective intimacy of his wide grey hood, under the cover of the night and the long black mane of Goliath.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Kayabiter 🖤🖤🖤 for his invaluable help with phrasing and the choice of appropriate words. Thank you for taking the time for me, it's really super nice. 😘


	4. Who is the monster?

Gawain is alone in his tent, sitting on the edge of his bed. It has been a long day, between supplying medicinal plants, hunting and mediating in disputes between Fay - which, unfortunately, is a task that falls to him in view of his status as a leader of the resistance. And then there is Lancelot...

He leans over with a sigh of frustration and presses his fingertips to his temples to relieve the stabbing pain that has only increased since the morning. He can't help but think of the young man, of the panicked gaze he gave him when he started to undress him, which the knight couldn't decipher at the time, taking his despair as modesty and embarrassment - it was partly the case. He can still see the pain in his eyes... The guilt is like a weight in his stomach - heavy and hot, unpleasant and _exciting._ Gawain didn't know -- _how could he?_ If he's honest with himself, he must admit that he had enjoyed his little game until the Ashman had turned to the river. He remembers the pleasure he felt when he noticed Lancelot's physical reaction when his fingers had touched his skin, the excitement when he finally got the answer to the question he had been asking himself for some time - _was Lancelot sexually attracted to him? Or did he see him only as a substitute for the authority of his 'father'?_ He had felt an intense jubilation quickly followed by an icy cold when the young man turned his back on him.

He feels dirty when he thinks back on the young man and his constant expectation of recognition.It wasn't so much the scars that shocked him - they testified to the brutal treatment the young man had undergone, but he suspected that the life of a Fay among Christian men-blood must not have been a piece of cake; the fresher wounds, on the other hand - some still bleeding - marked his shoulders and ribs. This was recent, and Gawain doubted that anyone among his people could have inflicted this on Lancelot. The most frustrating thing, however, is the hypocrisy of his feelings - how could the former monk fit in and feel comfortable among the Fay when Gawain himself would do anything to ostracize and humiliate him? Most of the Fay in the camp are no longer afraid of him but, with the fear, the respect they had for his fighting skills also disappeared. Hatred is still present, it has even increased tenfold since they saw that Lancelot was not a threat as long as the knight was present. Gawain's behaviour only reinforced the others in their rejection. This is not what he wants despite his anger towards the young man. Gawain doesn't know whether to intervene and forbid him to hurt himself or to let him deal with his conscience while convincing himself that this is only justice.Maybe he is not the best person to get involved in this kind of thing... _What could he say? I forbid you to hurt yourself, only I have this right?_ He would like to be able to erase everything, to forget his resentment and accept him, to be able to consider Lancelot as a Fay and no longer see in him the weeping monk... But he knows that his resolution will disappear the moment he lays his eyes on the Ashes.

He no longer recognises himself; maybe something has changed with his death, maybe his soul has not returned intact or maybe it is no longer really him? A vicious anguish seizes him at this thought - what if he was no longer quite the green knight? Would he realise it if something evil lived in him, cohabiting in his body and instilling dark thoughts into his head? Or maybe it simply comes from Lancelot... Gawain has always been capable of the greatest kindness, to the limit of holiness for the people he loves; but he has also experienced hatred, the hatred he feels for the paladins, the men-blood in general, a hatred so deep that it would be capable of cruelty. Lancelot is in a grey area - he both attracts and repels him.  
The knight rubs his hands on his face before putting them back on his temples and squeezing. He hates himself for what he is becoming, he feels like he is going mad, that the pieces of his dead and broken soul are breaking apart, that everything that made him a man worthy of respect and love is disappearing in a whirlwind of rage and self-loathing. But he is powerless to fight against this. He concentrates on his anger because it is easier to deal with than the rest - the monk has killed his own people, his family, his friends - _himself!_ His hands shake, the pain pulsates in his skull to the rhythm of his heartbeat. _Is Lancelot still the monster, or is it him_? Suddenly, he grabs the jar water filled at the foot of his bed and sends it crashing to the ground at the other end of the tent.

Determined to have a discussion with Lancelot about his self-mutilation, Gawain surveys the camp in the hope of spotting the Ashman. He eventually finds him in the woods at the edge of the camp, not far from the river where he undressed him the day before.He tries to repress the heat wave that begins to dawn on him in memory of the young man's naked body, his slender, chiselled silhouette, his powerful muscles, the soft, warm skin under his fingers. He cannot deny the beauty of this man - _and his eyes..._ The former monk seems to be the very embodiment of lust, created to tempt everyone who looks at him. Perhaps this is why the paladins made him hide under that heavy grey cloth? A thought comes to his mind and the corner of his lips curl upwards - _does Lancelot feel like sinning when he looks at himself in the mirror?_

Silently approaching, Gawain realized that his suspicions were justified. New bloody wounds are etched into the soft, pale skin. Each blow reveals a new furrow, painting the young man's back a deep red - _beautiful_. _And his face..._ The mouth that opens slightly with each blow in a silent groan, eyes closed, cheeks reddened... He is relaxed, as if he had given up his usual self-control, forgetting everything around him to abandon himself to pain with an ecstatic expression that Gawain has never seen.

Gawain has never considered himself a sadist, but how else to explain his mixed feelings about the monk's obvious malaise? He does not understand the perverse joy he feels in tormenting this man; the excitement that rises within him in the face of his suffering, _at the sight of his blood._ And yet he feels satisfaction when the former monk eagerly obeys the least of his requests. He does not understand how he can hold such power over Lancelot, but the important thing is that whatever he does to him, the young man's devotion seems boundless. Does the Ashman have a limit not to be crossed? It's an interesting question... Something dark, unhealthy takes root in his chest and wraps his heart around this thought.

If he is honest, he has only one desire at this moment, it is not to arrest Lancelot in his self-punishment for a certainly insignificant crime, it is not to heal him and console him, _no_ \- he wants to push him against the nearest tree and take him, without any delicacy; to possess this magnificent body, entirely subject to his wishes. It is a horrible thought, monstrous, but so tempting... It seems to consume him as he steps forward to reveal his presence.  
  
  



	5. Dilemma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, please forgive me for any translation errors :) Please let me know what you think of this chapter! Many thanks to Kayabiter for helping me translate Gawain's words correctly ;) Enjoy the reading.

Pain purifies. It cleanses him of his sins, of his impure thoughts, of the unnatural desires with which his demonic soul never ceases to torment him. Yes, pain washes him, purges him, but it does not heal him. Every time he puts down the leather strap, the bruised body and the serene mind, thoughts resurface, filling his head with devilishly sensual images and inflaming his flesh with a deliciously unhealthy fire. Lancelot is mortified by his ignominy. He knows that the devil wears countless finery, each more attractive than the next; and yet every time he is close enough for the sweet scent of humus and fresh mint to reach his keen senses, every time he sees him wandering around the camp with all the poise and assurance of a warlord, that he crosses his warm and intense gaze which penetrates his heart like a blade, that he comes so close that their bodies graze each other, it is as if an electric current runs through him from top to bottom, making the hairs stand up on his skin, sending a heat wave into his belly which leaves him panting and distraught. _No, it's not the knight's fault..._ It's only his cursed body and damned soul that betray him, leaguing against him to gently drive him into madness. Gawain played him, but Lancelot closed his eyes, refusing to see the truth behind the apparent kindness and abandoning himself to the illusory happiness of finally being understood, listened to, _loved._ Surrender seems so sweet, he no longer has the strength to fight to repress what he feels, so he atones, harder and harder every day as his love for the green knight grows. Of course, he knows that he doesn't deserve to be loved in return, he is a weapon and therefore the only thing he needs is a firm hand to control him, use him and bring out the best in him. If that hand is the knight's, he will be his devoted sword.

Love is a weakness, and he blames himself for being so weak; that is why he stands on his knees by the riverside that morning, shirtless, reveling in the burn crawling along his back, creeping into his flesh and bones, deeply erasing the last traces of his nightly lust. Lancelot hopes that if he bleeds enough, God will grant him the grace to purge his feverish dreams and to allow him a dreamless night's sleep. Unfortunately, God has never deigned to show compassion to his faithful dog and he doubts that he will do so now that his allegiance no longer goes to the paladins. Some days the young man almost wishes to leave the camp and go to Abbot Wicklow, to surrender, to finally put an end to his futile and aimless existence; but he has already betrayed an allegiance, he will not dishonour himself a second time. He chases away this morbid thought with another scathing blow; _what would the knight say if he knew what he was thinking?_ He clenches his teeth in rage and silences this annoying question with another blow more violent than the previous one. How much will it take for his sick brain and his treacherous body to stop their ramblings? If his father had still been of this world, he would already have handed him over to Brother Salt's care.

Thinking about his father is difficult, he is not sure how he feels about it.On the one hand there is the pain of knowing that he won't see him again and he feels lost, as if the only thing that had kept him on the right path has disappeared, leaving him left to himself without knowing what to do with him, ready to break up at the slightest gust of wind; and on the other hand it hurts when he thinks of all that he was forced to inflict on the Fay, knowing that far from feeling the grace he had so longed for, he knew deep down inside that what he was doing was wrong.

The sound of light footsteps on the dead leaves and the damp earth behind him surprises him and forces him to stop his ramblings. He turns his head violently, panicking at the thought of being caught in such a position. He did not feel him coming, too confused in his own head, and finds himself frozen in front of the cold and intense gaze of the green knight. The latter stares at him with his only valid eye and Lancelot is captivated, unable to make the slightest movement or have the least coherent thought. The bright green tinged with gold that colours the man's iris is of the same tone as the canopy on a hot summer day, when the sun shines intensely above the arch of the tallest trees, and its light passes through the foliage by transparency. He suddenly feels insignificant, miserable... ugly, wallowing in the dust, and the stain of his sins displayed in full view of the world; a poor cracked thing trying not to fall apart at the feet of the majestic light-drenched apparition that mercilessly scrutinises him.

The eagle doesn't waste his time lowering his gaze to the worm struggling in the mud... So why does he stand there watching him disintegrate on the spot as if he were worthy of interest? The silence is long and heavy enough for the former monk to lower his eyes and concentrate on the knight's boots. He should say something, anything to break the tension that reigns as he feels the knight's eye pressing down on him and digging into his flesh like a burning firebrand; but he has no more words... He has never been good at talking, as far as he can remember, he has always been silent, speaking only when asked. As a child, he had learned that words meant nothing most of the time, only actions count, only actions can prove loyalty and devotion. So all he could do was to wait for the knight to speak first, to tell him what he expected of him and put an end to his ordeal.

But the Fay seems to take a malicious pleasure in delaying this moment, as indicated by the pensive and amused expression which does not bode well for the young man. He had thought that the knight was different from the others, an exception as his kindness seemed so inhuman, patience and gentleness made man… This is not the case. But in the end it was a relief, the unconditional kindness he showed in the early days was unsettling, Lancelot was always expecting something in return, didn't know what to do to deserve it; now things are easier, more familiar. He knows how to react to an order, he is gifted at obeying it and Gawain asks nothing insurmountable from him; submission is so much simpler and the knight has that natural authority which pushes others to follow his instructions without questioning the validity of his directives. It's comforting, Lancelot feels framed, taken care of and perhaps a little less lost.

« Is this how paladins experience pleasure?"

Lancelot frowns, in total incomprehension, and the knight lets out an amused sigh.

« I'm sure you don't even know the meaning of this word, am I wrong? I've been wondering for a while now... have you ever _touched yourself_ Lancelot? »

The young man's eyes widen in amazement at the insinuation. This kind of behaviour is a sin severely repressed by the church, an act of depravity that he experienced only once a long time ago. His father had explained to him the infamy of his conduct and made sure to engrave this teaching into his flesh permanently. The knight rattles his head, a condescending smile on his lips at the former monk's silence.

« You know, if you want the Fays to accept you... _I accept you_ , you're going to have to behave like one of us and stop thinking like a Man Blood. »

Gawain walks a few steps forward and sits with his back against the trunk of an oak tree. He seems to be waiting for him to react, but Lancelot does not know what to do, mortified by what his new authority figure seems to want from him. Humiliation is not unknown to him, on the contrary... But this act goes against all the teachings he has been taught; on the other hand, acceptance is something he has always wanted and more than anything else, he wants the knight's acceptation, his approval, he wants this man to smile at him again, to congratulate him, he wants to please him by any means, no matter the price. The young man simply cannot stand the disapproving look and disappointment he can see on this beautiful face. The knight sighs again and sketches a movement, leaning against the tree to stand up and young Fay's heart quickens, he suddenly feels trapped in the face of the ultimatum. He can't let the knight go now, he doesn't want to let him down. He lowers his head as the red rises to his face, shame burning him like fire; He hastens to untie his trouser lace and the fabric goes down along his hips; Taking a deep, intermittent breath, he lets a trembling hand slide across his belly and his own touch feels like acid on his skin.

The knight lets himself fall to the ground and the panic Lancelot felt at the possibility of losing him calms down, clearing up his thoughts somewhat. He is aware that despite all his good will, he will achieve nothing in his state. The only way to satisfy Gawain is to give free rein to the impure desires and lustful dreams that he tries so hard to repress. But does he have a choice? He has to cede one way or the other, lose the utopian hope of winning this Fay's affection, or surrender to damnation and bury the voice, full of disgust and hatred, of his father who is screaming at him to follow the path of redemption.But father is no longer of this world, Gawain is very real and the pain that compresses his chest at the thought of seeing the disappointment in his eyes is also real.

He closes his eyes and lets the images of the night flood over him, letting the sensations overwhelm him, while sliding his hand over his hardening sex, hesitantly pulling it out of his clothes. He can still feel the gentle caress of the knight's hands on his ribs, the warmth of his body against his own, his hot breath in the hollow of his neck… It is so exhilarating, overwhelming, almost too real.The little inhibition that still clings to him dissipates, his hand clenches its fist around his erection, his movements become faster and faster and more disorderly as the images in his head become dirty and obscene; the sensations he has repressed for so long, the physical pleasure denied and buried deep in his soul overwhelm him in waves to the rhythm of his blood pulsing in his cock. He barely retains a moan when he feels the man's hair brushing against his bare shoulder and his voice tinged with fun and sensuality a few centimetres from his ear.

"I was hoping that you would need help, but I can see that this is not the case. »

The knight's words make the heat flow into his body, spreading and then concentrating in his lower abdomen where his muscles seem to have tightened, leaving him panting with his mouth ajar, and that's enough. He comes by imagining Gawain's hand on his dick - it's so good, so powerful that he throws his head back, letting out sounds he never thought he could make.

When the sensations calm down and he starts to come to his senses, reality resurfaces, guilt and shame, disgust... Lancelot suddenly feels miserable, _dirty._ He raises his eyes and meets the satisfied gaze of the knight who contemplates him, but there is something else, something predatory that makes him feel uncomfortable, makes him feel vulnerable. Gawain looks calm and smiling but the wild aura that oozes from him makes Lancelot cower. He is like a helpless lamb facing a hungry wolf, not daring to make a gesture for fear of being devoured. His heart beats in his chest, his pulse is deafening.

"Get dressed and join me in my tent. »

Then the knight moves away, his footsteps less and less audible and Lancelot finds himself alone, the helpless prey caught in the fire of the wild struggle between his heart and his brain. He is damned, wicked and weak, he does not deserve redemption, he has never done it; but what he has done, touching himself in such a way, in front of another man, giving free rein to his ignominious thoughts support him a little more in the idea that he is only an abomination, unworthy of any compassion and even more unworthy of any affection. The knight must laugh at the pitiful thing he is. And yet he cannot stop the knight's words from looping around in his head - _"I was hoping you would need help"_ \- rekindling the pathetic spark of hope that has taken root in his chest, despite the incessant storm raging there; it is warm and comforting, and Lancelot wraps his arms around him, clutching tightly, desperately, as if he could protect that little thing that keeps him alive.


	6. desires and jealousy

Lancelot's face does not leave his mind all the way back to the camp. He sees him again on his knees, his hard, reddened sex, his expression of ecstatic pleasure and the sounds coming out of his throat... At this thought, his painful cock twitches in his overly tight trousers. Why does this man have to be so attractive? Even when he's on his knees in the mud with a bloody back? Is it normal to feel excitement at this sight? Or is Gawain definitely lost? The knight sighs in frustration. He would have preferred Lancelot to refuse. Things would have been simpler if he hadn't given in so readily. So eager to please, waiting for a touch, an affectionate word... It's so touching, this naivety and submission that seem to be two traits of character ingrained in him.

Now Gawain is stiff as he hasn't been for months and he can't even satisfy this need as he would like, because it would be... What would it be? What's really preventing him from taking advantage of The Ash's desperate need for attention? He's convinced that Lancelot would let him do whatever he wants with him, he probably wouldn't even complain if Gawain hurt him - maybe he'd even ask for more? How would he feel, buried in the warm, tight body of the former monk? What would it feel like to have the delicate skin of his throat give way under his teeth? Would the young man remain stoic or moan like a whore?

The anger resurfaces in his chest. Why can't he enjoy this moment, celebrate his regained virility? Why does this man have to torture him in this way? He has taken everything away from him and continues to do it again. Even when Gawain humiliates him and dominates him in every possible way, the Ashen continues to taunt him unconsciously; he has made him a monster - because who else but a monster can wonder where the harm is in taking advantage of another's sickly needs?

Gawain sees one of his former lovers a little further away - a one-night stand, like most - warming himself by a fire; a pretty little creature with pale skin, shiny blue eyes and light hair topped with two respectably sized antlers - he won't let the monk stop him from enjoying himself. With a determined footstep, he goes to the young Fay and stops behind him, gently sliding his hand on the faun's back, moving up the back of his neck to rest on his shoulder. Fay turns his head and meets the knight's gaze - feverish, impatient - and he needs no words to understand what Gawain wants from him.He is one of his former conquests who would have given anything to be more than a distraction for the green knight. Gawain can see the urge to slightly enlarge his already large eyes because of the darkness. Without a word, he turns away and moves towards his tent; he doesn't need to look back, he already knows that the young man is following him.

  
It doesn't take long for Gawain to find his trousers around his ankles, the pretty young man on his knees between his legs, his warm and soft hands - enterprising - giving the knight the physical contact he has sorely missed in recent months. But in spite of the faun's skill and ardour, his mouth tightly around his cock, his wet and nimble tongue around his dick's head... The knight notices with horror and frustration that he has gone soft - inexorably and pitifully, his erection recedes; until the tent flap silently opens and another young Fay enters.

The knight in his excitement had already forgotten that he had asked Lancelot to join him; he crosses the gaze of the Ashen man and the heat in his lower abdomen returns, blazing, as he sees the young man assimilate the scene in front of his eyes with incredulity, frozen and apparently unable to turn away. Then a shadow seems to veil the usual brilliant blue of his iris and his face closes and darkens into an indecipherable expression. He pivots towards the exit and is about to leave, but the knight has other plans .

"Sit down. I'll take care of you in a moment."

The former monk turns around and Gawain looks at him again, sad, hesitant, hurt... he seems to contain a deep, dull pain. The young man lets himself fall to his knees and Gawain doesn't know if he consciously chooses this position; he likes to think that the Ashen man imagines himself in the place of the Faun. This thought pulls a low growl from Gawain's chest as all his blood flows into the same place and he suddenly pushes his hips forth.The young man on his knees makes a muffled sound, and Lancelot's eyes move, seemingly regaining awareness of the presence of a third person, then return to him - a beautiful shade of deep, veiled, wet blue in this moment. If the knight didn't know him better, he could swear he would cry - absurd. He is not that kind of man…

"Isn't jealousy considered a sin? »

Gawain's voice is low, raspy, heavy with pleasure. The mouth into which he eagerly dives has become secondary to the variety of feelings that are currently scrolling across Lancelot's face.He imagines his hard cock slipping between the pink lips, shiny and moist with saliva, swollen by friction; he imagines it choking around its width as he ruthlessly sinks to the bottom of his throat. Gawain comes in an obscene groan, never taking his eyes off Lancelot. He observes the fascinated expression, the reddened cheeks - is he hard in his trousers?

The young Faun stands up and the knight returns to reality; despite his resemblance, this Fay is not Lancelot. He looks at Gawain with a smile -- "We'll do it again whenever you want. » -- before turning his head towards the young man still kneeling beside the entrance. The latter seems to have scowled again.

"So you are jealous monk? He moves closer to Lancelot and Gawain observes the scene with perverse interest, waiting for the Ashen to react while he pulls up his trousers. "Do you want to know what he tastes like?"

The Faun crouches down in front of him and runs two semen-covered fingers over the young man's soft lips with a sly smile.

"The only thing Carden's little bitch deserves is to clean the sperm off my fingers. »

The Ash Man remains impassive, glances sideways at Gawain, visibly waiting for a directive, and a whiff of possessiveness invades the knight's chest. Lancelot is submissive to him, he will let the other Fay play with him if Gawain so desires.

"I remember when you licked his feet, you seemed to like it...". Young Fay grabs Lancelot's chin, spreading sticky fluid over his jaw and the knight can see a flash of rage lighting up in the sloeks of the Ashen, a dangerous glow that makes Gawain proud, his sense of possessiveness still growing. Lancelot is not a tamed domestic animal, he is a wild beast that only he can subdue; seeing him humiliated by another gives him no feeling of pleasure, only anger, a dark and throbbing anger that makes him clench his fists.

"We all thought that... »

"That's enough, Nataël. »

His voice slams like a whip in the silent atmosphere of the tent. Young Nataël gets up instantly, understanding that it is time to leave. The surprised and annoyed frown of the Faun does not escape the knight. He already knows that he will have to make up for it, cut short the gossip with a show of authority and firmness. The young man greets Gawain with a brief nod and leaves.

Gawain is left alone with the monk still on his knees, head down. He moves forward at a slow pace, savouring the young man's shudder when he stops in front of him, his boots a few centimetres from his knees. When Lancelot timidly raises his eyes to his face, all trace of anger has disappeared, only a fearful and hesitant admiration remains. The knight's gaze falls on his lips still moist with his cum - a stain that makes him even more desirable, that brings a touch of sensuality to the naive innocence displayed on his face at the moment - an innocence that only asks _to be soiled._

Gawain lets his fingers run over the sharp cheekbones, in the soft blond curls, before suddenly clenching his fist and pulling back brutally, gaining a painful and surprised breath; He is even more beautiful that way...

"Is it true? Would you have wished you were in his place? "He tilts his head slightly to the side, trying to decipher the emotions that scroll through the large blue eyes that involuntarily descend on his lips for a fraction of a second before rising again.

"Do you like to kneel down for me?"

To his surprise, the young monk swallows with difficulty - Gawain can't help watching the lump of his throat move up and down, the immaculate skin on his neck makes him want to bite, leaving bruises and bloody marks all along the throbbing vein - before nodding his head - so innocent, so hungry to please, _to satisfy him._

"I guess you must have been a real dilemma for your 'brothers'... Is having fun with an evil creature worse than sleeping with a man?"

To his great satisfaction, it's still there, _the pain in his eyes_ \- the pain that makes his tired cock react in his trousers. Lancelot doesn't answer, but it's not as if he's expecting an answer anyway. A condescending smile stretches his lips.Gawain lets go of the Ashen's hair and lets his hand down towards his jaw, cleaning the semen with his thumb before sliding it almost tenderly between the tempting lips, patiently waiting for the young man to loosen his teeth.

"Do you want to learn how to give pleasure to a man? Why not after all..." Lancelot opens his mouth, letting the inquisitive finger explore the warm, moist cavity, caressing his tongue. "We'll have to find a use for this pretty mouth. »

The knight gives a lascivious sigh when the young man finally closes his lips and starts to suck his thumb, his soft tongue rolling around like he's savoring a fucking cock! _Patience my d'earl, don't be so greedy, I'll give you what you want soon enough._

Taking his hand away from the Ashen Fay's face, Gawain returns with a nonchalant step towards the satchel he keeps at the foot of his bunk.

"Take off your clothes, I have to clean your back. »

He doesn't need to turn around to know that the other person obeys him, nor to see the stunned expression and gratitude in his eyes, nor to know that this act, which is insignificant for anyone, will be returned to him a hundredfold by this man whom no one has probably ever cared for.


	7. Mutual trust

Lancelot is lying on his bunk with his eyes open ans trained on the tent's canvas ceiling. Despite the fatigue that weighs down on his body like a leaden slab, sleep seems to escape him. Emotions and thoughts swirling in his head make his heart beat too fast, it pounds against his ribs so hard that he can count the beats without difficulty. The muffled buzzing that fills his eardrums, pulsating at the same rhythm as his blood reminds him of the ebbing waves on the shore. The sea has always made him nostalgic for some unknown reason. The feeling overwhelms him like the echo of a long-forgotten memory, something important, something that leaves an emptiness in his chest... Like a wound that never heals, an amputated limb whose presence is sought when it no longer exists. It's a strange and disturbing feeling that he can't really define. So, as every time it becomes too heavy, he goes out to find Goliath in the hope of filling this void a little by the presence of his friend.  
  


The great black horse is grazing peacefully in the meadow that borders the camp. He reacts to Lancelot's approach with a slight neigh, advancing with a calm and confident gait. They have known each other for years. Goliath was destined to die when Lancelot found him. A poor wounded beast with whom no one wanted to waste time. That was seven years ago. Lancelot was accompanying his father on a visit to the Yvoire Abbey, to enlist a few lost souls in the ranks of the paladins when he saw this young colt dying on the side of the road, too weak to get up. He had been attacked by dogs and the bleeding wounds on his legs and throat left him with little chance of survival. The farmer to whom he belonged had probably abandoned him to his sad fate. Lancelot had begged his father to let him take him, and Carden refused, threatening to punish him for his insistence. _"You are not worthy to desire anything - God is the only judge of what you deserve to possess. In any case, how would a demon like you be able to take care of a living creature? Stop bothering me unless you want to be disciplined again."_ He had changed his mind, however, when he saw the bloody tears streaming from the animal's eyes as a divine sign. _"It seems that God has put this creature on your path to test you...Don't get attached to this beast, it won't spend the night. Animals are on earth to serve humans and not the other way round, this is probably what the Lord wants you to understand."_ An object, placed on earth to serve mankind... Just as a weapon is made to carry out the will of mankind.  
  


This comparison had only strengthened the determination of the boy he was, and Goliath had survived the night, and the next. And Lancelot had discovered that by giving this creature all the love and care he was capable of, he had made this "object" a friend of unparalleled loyalty.

His father was wrong, though; Lancelot is not like that horse - he is a demonic creature, and he learns only through pain.

Goliath took him out of his thoughts with a small head butt in the shoulder, impatient to get a caress. Lancelot let his hand slide along the stallion's muzzle, feeling the usual calm and serenity flood him with a soft and warm touch. But strangely this evening, he can't forget everything that is going on in his head. _"Would you like to get down on your knees for me?"_ He freezes, feeling the red coming up to his cheeks. Kneeling is an act of devotion to the Lord and only him... Yet, shamefully, Lancelot is forced to admit that he feels the desire to kneel before the knight; the obvious pleasure he can read on Gawain's face in these moments gives him the gratifying feeling of having found his place. It is wrong, but he sometimes wonders if it is the closest thing to divine grace he is worthy of feeling.

His fingers glide through the mane until they are stuck on the knots that entangle the long black hairs. He patiently untangles them, one after the other, imagining that each knot represents one of the many sinful thoughts that confuse his mind, pervert it.

But when the image of Gawain coming in this Fay's mouth imposes itself on him, it is like a punch to the gut, a pain that takes his breath away and makes him bend in half, clasping his arms around him while his forehead rests against Goliath's shoulder. He can still see the burning look on his face, his hand in Nataël's hair. _"Is this true? Would you have liked to be in his place? "Oh yes, more than anything..._ More than he ever wished for anything, more than he ever wished for redemption. Perhaps it is another kind of redemption, one that does not require genocide - redemption in the eyes of the knight.

Lancelot straightens and pushes his face against Goliath's neck, one hand clutching his mane and the other gently caressing the horse's back. He can still feel the knight's hands in his hair, on his face, the taste of his pleasure on his tongue as the tears come to his eyes, burning. He would give anything for Gawain to use him, to be his.The tears flow silently along his birthmarks and on his friend's coat.

_He is not worthy to desire anything._

The minutes pass and the tears dry up, leaving him huddled against Goliath, in a pleasant silence, his fingers unconsciously twisting in the mane as he slowly recovers.The knight plays with him like a spider with an insect caught in its web; he knows he's not going anywhere, has nobody to seek - father is dead, the paladins want him dead, he doesn't even know where he comes from... did he had a mother before? Was he simply born of hell? - And above all, the knight has made sure that he becomes important to Lancelot, his link with the Fay, his anchor. He and Goliath are all he has in this world, and he is not indispensable to either of them.

A quiet rustle makes him raise his head and put his hand at his side - where his sword should be. He feels so naked and vulnerable without a weapon - worse than useless. The people responsible for the rustle emerge from between the trees some distance away and Lancelot recognises Nataël; he is accompanied by another Fay - a young brown man whom he knows only by sight. The two men do not seem to have noticed him: dressed in grey as he is, he blends into Goliath's imposing mass. He observes the couple stopping face to face, the moonlight giving a strange ghostly appearance to their silhouettes. What happens next leaves him shocked and indignant - Nataël stands up on tiptoes and tenderly places his lips on those of the other Fay. He kisses the young brown man without any modesty, with that same hateful mouth that seemed to give so much pleasure to the Green Knight only a few hours ago.

Lancelot frowns and turns away from the show, intentionally stepping on a small piece of dry wood that cracks under his boot. He doesn't want to witness what happens next. Should he inform Gawain that his lover is unfaithful? The denunciation, or the lie by omission? He remembers one day when father had burned a married woman for adultery... Do the Fay do the same? If father had been there... - _father would have burned them both, he would have burned Gawain as well because this kind of relationship is an affront in the eyes of God._

Someone clears the throat behind his back and the sound makes him turn his head, and he finds himself facing Nataël; the other Fay stands a few meters behind him and Lancelot can see hatred in his eyes. Nataël stares at him with a friendly smile that doesn't deceive anyone, the slyness remains clears in the pale blue eyes. He sees him again on his knees, his lips pressed tightly against the sex of the knight; Lancelot feels his cursed body reacting in an inappropriate, dirty way. He becomes agitated and twists a little, trying to hide his discomfort, uneasy and his cheeks red, but unable to move away.

"Sorry about earlier. I hope you're not too angry with me... "

In front of the young man's silence, Nataël sighs, leaning his head to the side.

"Listen, this is stupid, I shouldn't have treated you like I did. I'd like us to forget all this, to be friends? If you want. »

Lancelot looks at the young man, skeptical, but decides to swallow his pride and nods before turning away again, putting his hand on Goliath's back.

"If you want to fit in, you're going to have to do a little better than that. I'm a nice guy, but not everyone is. We have our customs and we're all very attached to them. They could become yours; I could teach you if you want. »

Lancelot turns to the young man again, curious this time. Could it be possible that he misjudged him? Maybe this Nataël is not so bad and that he really wants to help him... What has he got to lose anyway? Most of the Fay would rather die than teach him anything about them, their customs, their way of life... This may be his only chance; if he refuses, there is little chance that this offer will be renewed.

"Alright then, to begin with, let me introduce you to Mathéo. "He nods briefly in the direction of his friend, before leaning closer to the former monk and lowering his voice. "He lost his family in the fire in his village. "Nataël backs up his statement with a small grimace. "It would be a good start if you apologised to him - Fay apology. »

No, it was stupid; he only wants to destabilise him, to stir up the wound.

The young man smiles at Lancelot's nervousness and mistrust, a gentle and understanding smile.

« It's not very complicated, nothing that requires blood to be spilt. I just want to help you, you don't have to, but it would be a good start if you really want to fit in. It would be nicer for you, and Gawain wouldn't have to watch you constantly. Don't you want to show him that he can trust you? »

Lancelot lingers for a few seconds, looking for the slightest sign of a lie on the Faun's harmonious and jovial face, but he sees nothing of the sort. He just wishes he could go back to his tent, he doesn't want to apologise, nor to be friends with these two there... But maybe if he manages to learn their customs things will improve? If he is able to apologise properly, to prove to the knight that he wants to be part of his people, to show him that he sincerely regrets his mistakes and does his best to atone himself from the people he has hurt... then Gawain will be able to forgive him in his turn. 

« It's easy, relax, you just repeat after me. « ‘Iri vatare tora niatyre’ means 'I'm truly sorry', come on, repeat. »

He repeats the words hesitantly, almost a whisper, expecting at any moment that the other two will start laughing, but this is not the case. Nataël looks at him with satisfaction, an encouraging smile lighting up his face.

« That's good! Now stand in front of Mathéo and apologise. If he accepts your apology, he will answer 'Savi craje' – ‘Apology accepted’ ».

Lancelot glances in the direction of the other Fay who seems to be getting impatient. He's not sure he wants to do this... But his pride forces him to go all the way, he can't turn back now, he can't show them how he feels, he doesn't want to suffer the humiliation of hearing them laugh as he leaves to hide like an animal, too broken to face his former victims. He has to accept his past mistakes, he has to atone. He would have liked it to be simpler, that it was enough to kneel down and endure the blows, but it is not the case. He casts a last hesitant glance at Nataël who nods, takes a deep breath and walks towards Mathéo. The latter shakes his head in exasperation and sighs noisily and Lancelot is on the verge of turning back, but his new _friend_ intervenes.

« Come on Mathéo, let him try it, everyone deserves a second chance. » Mathéo glares at him, annoyed before turning to Lancelot, looking at him with disdain.

« Very well monk, I'm listening. »

It's a good start, all he has to do is repeat the words. He keeps his head down, his eyes fixed on his boots as he apologises in a deep voice, made hoarse by the lack of use.

"Iri vatare tori niatyre. »

"Savi craje. »

Lancelot turns to Nataël, waiting for an instruction from him on how to proceed. Is it over? He doesn't dare to turn away from Mathéo for fear of making a mistake. Nataël approaches and puts a hand on the shoulder of the former monk who immediately tightens upon contact but does not move away.

« That's good, there's one last thing left.To seal the reconciliation once and for all, there must be proof of mutual acceptance. But I don't think you'll be able to do that... I don't know if you're _Fay_ _enough_ for that... »

The words are deliberately provocative and Lancelot knows it; but they touch a sore spot and that is precisely the objective, to play with his pride and his will to prove that he is up to the task, that _he is capable_. Nataël stares at him as if he were gauging his motivation, as if it were a test.

« We're going to try, we'll see. » The young man steps forward and stands behind the former monk who turns to face him. « The aim is to show his confidence in the other and his willingness to move forward. Are you ready? » Lancelot nods with determination. The blond man comes closer, too close, and the Ashen takes a step backwards by reflex, suddenly feeling Mathéo's presence behind him, oppressive, blocking any retreat. Lancelot clenches his fists and represses the anguish that starts to rise in his chest. He can feel his heart accelerating, his hands moist, his mouth dry, his back tensed up like the bowstring. « It's all about _mutual trust._ » Lancelot keeps his eyes fixed on those of the Faun and forces himself to take a deep breath; the blue seems to be silver in the light of the moon. The young man closes the space between them, rising on tiptoes and pressing his lips against those of the Ashman.

Lancelot is suddenly overwhelmed by the sensations, the softness of his lips, the smell of sweet berries invading his nose, so strong that he feels as if he were smelling the taste of wild blackberries on his tongue; it is brutal, shocking and almost ... pleasant for a fraction of a second. Then the anxiety resurfaces like a wave of darkness, sweeping everything in its path, extinguishing the stars, the moon, erasing the smell of sweet berries. What he does is wrong, what he does is a sin.A powerful burst of adrenaline explodes in his chest, and his heart beats at an incredible speed, so fast and strong that Lancelot thinks it could stop at any moment. His field of vision shrinks, smaller and smaller, bordered by shadows stretching from the sides towards the centre. The faint light seems to move away, to disappear. Would God have opened the gates of hell under his feet? Is he falling, sinking into the abyss, condemned to burn in darkness until the day of the Last Judgement? He has to go away, he has to breathe, he needs air, but Natael and his blackberry smell suffocate him. An shameful and destructive panic seizes what little consciousness he has left, and he is ready to defend himself tooth and nail so as not to sink, not to burn.

Then everything seems to happen in slow motion, as if Lancelot were watching an accident as a helpless spectator. He freezes, his eyes wide open in surprise, and then steps back with a leap, simultaneously striking Mathéo behind him and Nataël as his fist comes into contact with the jaw of the young Fay in front of him. The latter falls backwards, and his friend tries to grab the former monk's hair through his hood, but Lancelot turns around and confronts him, ready to fight.

« Mathéo it's fine, leave him, it's my fault, he's not ready. »

The other raises his hands and spits at the feet of the Ashen, an expression of disgust on his face.

« He will never be, he is no more Fay than his red brothers. » The young brown man turns around and walks away towards the camp. Nataël gets up, rubbing his sore cheek. His mouth is bleeding and the side of his face lit by the moonlight is already starting to turn dark, almost black under the stars. Against all odds he doesn't look angry, there is no mocking smile, nothing like what the former monk expected. He smiles gently, a small painful grin distorting the corner of his mouth.

« You're really going to have to work on trust... It's alright you'll apologise when you're ready. »

The young man turns away and takes the same path as his friend, leaving Lancelot alone and shocked. This is the first time someone has touched him in this way and he feels lost. Nataël simply wanted to help him... He put aside his resentment, he trusted him, a murderer! He was ready to accept him, to give him a chance; The first one to reach out to him for months, the first one to dare to touch him without any intention of hurting him. And he didn't even apologise properly. _"He is no more Fay than his red brothers. »_

Lancelot is certain of two things:

\- He hit a Fay, this will not go unpunished.

\- His behaviour will certainly disappoint Gawain and he will have to make up for it.

He still has a chance to make up for his mistake. _"You're really going to have to work on trust"._


	8. Discipline

Gawain is awakened by a noise of agitation outside his tent. He grunts, annoyed to be pulled out of such a pleasant dream and puts on his clothes before going out. The fresh, pungent morning air quickly chases away any residual sleep. He looks at the small group of Fay standing in front of him, led by Mathéo, a normally calm and discreet young man who seems unusually sullen. One of the young warriors speaks.  
  
« It can't go on like this Gawain! You must do something about this traitor! »  
  
The knight sighs, exasperated, understanding what brings the small angry crowd here so early in the morning - _Lancelot, it's always about him._

«We know you have a soft spot for this dog, but you can't let him take it out on one of us! He needs to know where he belongs.»

«I've always said, he doesn't fit in with us, he's not one of us!»

«I think we should get rid of him, it's too risky, he's dangerous Gawain! We should slit his throat.»

«Or send him back to his brothers, they will take care of him.»

Gawain takes a deep breath while passing a hand over his face. _'We know you have a soft spot for this dog.'_ Natael probably couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut... all that shit... That's exactly what he wanted to avoid. - He knew it would happen eventually, he's going to have to find a way to calm everyone down. But first, he needs to know what it's all about. The Fay continue to propose solutions, each one more extravagant than the other, to get rid of the former monk. The angry tone of the beginning has given way to a kind of euphoria, an unhealthy joy at the idea of finding the most sadistic solution to put an end to the problem. He has no choice but to raise his voice.

«That's enough!»

The silence is all around him. He will have to find a solution, and quickly. Unfortunately, he can't afford to just go back to sleep and pretend that nothing has happened. He has to take the necessary measures or he will alienate his men and dissension will only harm the cohesion of the group. Killing Lancelot is not an option, however.

«Can anyone tell me what happened?»  
  
All eyes turn to Mathéo. «Did Lancelot do something to you?» The young man spits on the ground before answering in an angry tone.

«This dirty dog hit Nataël. All because you don't know how to keep him on a leash!»

Would the monk be more jealous than he thought? Could he have hit Nataël because of what he saw in the tent the day before? The knight knows the young Faun well and his taste for teasing - he must have provoked the Ashen in some way... In any case it's not acceptable... Lancelot will have to learn the limits if he wants to survive, and Gawain must make this lesson a demonstration of authority; prove to his men that he is the leader and that he controls the former monk. He thought he made it clear the first time, when he asked Lancelot to turn the other cheek... Maybe the boys are right, maybe he's still being too lenient.

«It's your fault Gawain, you let him wander freely in the camp as if he wasn't a fucking murderer! He killed our families, _dammit_!»

Whispers of consent are echoing through the crowd and the knight knows he has no choice. He cannot afford to lose the respect of his men - _he must show no weakness_.

«Where is Nataël? I want to see him.»

A few minutes later, young Fay is brought in front of him and Gawain notices the damage - half of his face is swollen and purple, his lip split and one eye ringed in black...

«What the hell happened? What have you done now, Nataël?» Mathéo intervenes.

«How can you say that, Gawain? Your bitch disfigured him! No one can doubt that Nataël is the victim in this story, I was there, _I saw everything!_ All because this bastard is too proud to apologise for all the harm he's done to us.»

So that's what it's all about... Young Faun looks at his feet, he seems... embarrassed. The knight forces him to raise his head, pushing two fingers under his chin and Nataël finally deigns to look at him.

«Is it true what he says? You just asked the monk to apologize and he hit you?» The young man nods his head, giving his friend a quick glance in the corner.

«It's nothing, I shouldn't have provoked him... I knew he didn't appreciate my little joke in the tent. It's not important Gawain, really.»

No, there is no way of letting something like that go by.

«Go and see the healer. I'll sort it out.»

The anger he feels towards Lancelot is fuelled by the fear of losing the Fay's trust, and underneath his calm and casual demeanour, the rage threatens to spill over. To begin with, he must find Lancelot.

Gawain immediately heads towards the forest, taking a brisk step in the direction of the place where the monk tends to take refuge when he practices his religious activities or simply wants to be alone. He is not surprised to find him on his knees, busy flogging himself. What makes him lose his temper, however, are the words psalmodized like a litany and the little he hears makes him want to hit the young man, to hit him until he stops imploring divine grace, until he stops believing in this evil God whose word has decimated his people. He wishes to make him beg for mercy, to make him pray for _his mercy_ \- _to make him pray for other things as well..._ But this is not what he has planned for the moment.

He approaches the kneeling man who now looks at him with resigned eyes; he seems to have instinctively understood that the knight is not there to argue. The monk looks down at the anger in Gawain's eyes - at least he has the decency to feel guilty. Gawain suddenly grabs Lancelot's hair and forces his head back, forcing him to face him.

«Did you hit Nataël last night when he asked you to apologise for the Fay you killed?»

The knight can see the fear widening the young man's pupils, swallowing the blue of the iris to leave only a thin circle of colour, and this vision makes this twitch a gentle warmth in his stomach.

«Yes.»

He is surprised by the voice of the Ashman. It is hoarse, just a breath, barely audible. He was expecting him to nod back, as he usually does; he had even begun to think that the former monk might have cut off his tongue when he left the paladins - _until he slipped a finger into that pretty mouth the day before._

«Look at you... You're pathetic, praying to a God who doesn't want you! Indoctrinated to the point of absurdity» - Gawain bends over and runs his other hand over the bleeding cuts on the young man's back on his knees. - «to the point of hitting you yourself to please those aberrations of nature that humans are.»

The knight raises his hand in front of his face, like fascinated by the blood on his fingers. Then he closes his fist, coming out of his contemplation to crouch down in front of Lancelot, his head slightly bent to the side, his eyes cold.

«Do you like pain? Well, I'll give you some, since apparently that's all you understand.»

Gawain gets up, pulling the monk on his legs with a violent traction on his hair. He holds out his other hand and Lancelot looks at him, uncertain; he seems to be in the middle of an internal struggle, but despite his hesitation he resigns himself and finally gives the leather strap he is holding - Gawain grabs it and notices that it is a stirrup strap, probably from the saddle of the monk's horse. The knight shakes his head and lets out a sigh of derision. Honestly, what kind of religion teaches its followers that anything can be used to harm themselves? How can the Ashman believe in such nonsense? _Hurt himself in order to be forgiven?_ How can hurting oneself make up for the wrongs done to another?

It is so stupid that the hatred he feels towards the paladins resurfaces accompanied by the desire to shake Lancelot hard enough to make him open his eyes. He lets his fingertips slide along the strap, smearing the blood on the brown leather - _Lancelot's blood._ He notes with disgust that this thought makes his body react; what a decay for the benevolent and virtuous man that he was. The horror that grips his heart at the realization of what he has become hurts him. He suddenly feels like a wounded and cornered animal. Grasping the neck of the Ashen, he leads him without any restraint towards his tent.

Lancelot follows him without resistance, he does not ask the knight to let him put his shirt back on, does not ask him where he is taking him or what he intends to do; he moves forward obediently, without seeking to justify his act. Gawain has to admit this, he is the kind of man to take responsibility for his actions and suffer the consequences without flinching.

The crowd has somewhat diminished, but most of the warriors are still there, waiting for Gawain to show them that he is worthy to lead them. He awaits his reaction like a test. The knight feels the eyes on him, intrigued, approving, thirsting for revenge. This is what his people want, and he will give it to them. He suddenly pushes the monk forward, pressing on his neck, and the monk stumbles, narrowly avoiding the fall. The Fay make circles around them.

«On your knees.»

The young man literally lets himself fall on his knees without the slightest hesitation; of course, it's a command he's used to... Gawain contemplates him for a moment, his head down in a sign of submission, his hair falling on his face, partly hiding his eyes, his forearms resting on his thighs, his fists clenched in anticipation of what is to come.

With this demonstration, Gawain wants to prove to his people that he is their leader; that whatever happens, they will always come first. He wants to show everyone that Lancelot obeys him no matter what - that he belongs to him. Internally, he also wants this to deter any act of retaliation against the young man. He doesn't know what he would do if someone hurt him badly, _or worse_ \- an unpleasant, acidic, burning feeling, twisting in his stomach like an eel; a mixture of anger, hatred and anguish.

Lancelot's painful and surprised moaning brings him back to reality. He is not aware of the force he put into the stroke, but if he is to believe the former monk's body language, his arched body and tense muscles, it must have been violent. He is not aware of the force he put into the stroke, but if he is to believe the former monk's body language, his arched body and tense muscles, he must have been violent. A strange excitement overwhelms him, a feeling of domination that ravages everything in its path. Lancelot is _his thing,_ he will punish him because he can, because he _wants to_ \- _the only truth is there_ , Gawain suddenly realizes.He no longer knows whether he wants to cry for the monster he has become or to rejoice and savour the feeling of omnipotence; he strikes a second blow, blood splashes on the pale skin and a wild frenzy seizes him, his brain no longer seems to control anything while his body vibrates with the desire to see the pain on the beautiful face streaked with tears.

He comes back to himself when a soft hand grabs his wrist, stopping his movement - _Nataël._

«That's enough ... I think he has understood. You're going to kill him if you continue.»

The Green Knight comes to his senses, lowering his eyes to the kneeling man. He didn't shout, didn't make the slightest protest - he would have let Gawain beat him to death if Nataël hadn't intervened. The pain is very present, it is undeniable... But there is something else, a kind of warmth in the young man's blown pupils when he looked up at him - it looks like a dark, repressed desire, an unfulfilled tension and perhaps also... shame and anger, which is reflected in the blue eyes as if he were looking in a mirror. Gawain can see the Ashen chest rising in the rhythm of rapid, shallow breathing. Lancelot's arm moves, a brief movement that catches the knight's eye... The young man shifts his forearm, barring the top of his thighs as if he wanted to hide - to hide a natural and involuntary reaction of his body - _this beautifully broken man._

The knight drops the leather strap and speaks to Nataël without looking away from the bloody mess he has made of the Ashman.

«Help me to lift him up.»

He grabs Lancelot under one arm while the other Fay does the same on the other side and they put him upright. The young man grimaced as they pulled him to his feet but he said nothing, obediently following the other two to Gawain's tent.

Once the flap closed on them, the knight dismissed Nataël and turned to the former monk. The latter doesn't look at him and Gawain feels a whiff of guilt when he sees the poor young man - he knows he has gone too far. This time he has lost control. He has abused the Ashen's submission and need for authority; it is not worthy of him, the warrior he is - _he was._ Where is his compassion? His kindness?

«Sit down, I will clean your wounds.»

«I am fine.»

Lancelot keeps his eyes fixed on the ground as the knight approaches. Only a slight backward movement as he reaches out his hand to grasp young Fay's arm, which he keeps in front of him in a vain attempt to conceal the taut fabric of his trousers. Gawain lets out an amused sigh.

«You liked it... there's no point in hiding it.»

Faced with the lack of reaction from the Ashman, Gawain puts his hand on his wrist and moves it away, confirming what he already knew. He moves a little closer, brushing against the half-naked body of the young man.

«How can you be so innocent... _when we know what you've done_?»

The knight can feel the trembling of the other Fay - _Is it fear? Is it excitement?_ He is not sure, but what he does know is that his own body responds in a way that only Lancelot can provoke. _It's so frustrating._ Suddenly angry with the ashen man – because of his lack of response, or the desire he inspires in him simply by being who he is – Gawain suddenly pulls Lancelot's wrist towards him, causing him to lose his balance, and turns him over to push him face up against the centre pole of the tent, his arm bent behind his back, his cheek pressed against the wood. He presses himself close to the monk's back and pushes his hips forward against the young man's buttocks, wrenching a gasp of surprise and fear from him.

«Are you even aware that your body is screaming at me?»

From where he is, he can see the Ashen's eyes filling with tears, and his cock twitching in his trousers.

«It begs me to touch you.»

The knight lets go of the arm of the other warrior, who brings it back in front of him to cling to the pole like a lifeline. Gawain lets his hands slide down his waist, his sides, savouring the sensation of the warm, soft skin under his palms.

«It begs me to bare you, to bend you over this bed and open you up with my fingers.»

He feels the thrill that runs through the former monk's spine at his words and barely retains a sound of excited approval when Lancelot moves, causing an involuntary friction against his erection. The knight's calloused hands come down to grasp the young man's hips and pull them abruptly back while slamming his own against his ass. The sound that escapes Lancelot's lips is music to his ears. He leans forward, his chin in the hollow of the blond man's neck, and when he whispers the next words, his voice is sweet.

«Your body wants me to take it, to fill it with my cock and my sperm.»

With one hand still on the young man's hips, Gawain slides the other towards the front of Lancelot's trousers, pressing firmly on his hard cock, and the former monk moans openly this time, his head thrown back and his eyes half-closed.

«That's what you want too, isn't it?»

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas to all :)
> 
> Don't hesitate to let me know what you thought of this chapter, it's always a pleasure (and a great motivation) to read your comments. 🖤


	9. I'm not a monster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please read the updated tags, this chapter is violent and can be shocking for some (I mean, more than the previous ones.) For those who are still with me... Enjoy the reading!
> 
> Many thanks to Kayabiter for his help.🥰 I really don't know what this story would look like without you! And thank you also for letting me copy one of Gawain's sentences from your wonderful work. 🖤🖤🖤

Fear grows in his chest just as excitement does in his belly. His heart beats wildly, as powerful and loud as a galloping horse - a horse chased by the fires of hell. Lancelot feels helpless, pressed against the tent pole by the heavy and firm body of the knight behind him. 

He feels trapped, and panic overcomes him at this thought. He struggles in vain, only gaining for his efforts more tension in his shoulder - if Gawain forces his arm any higher up his back, he will eventually dislocate it. The Fay presses up a little more against him and the Ashman cannot suppress an anxious breath when the other man's erection presses against his buttocks.

The knight doesn't seem to be aware of the fear that grips Lancelot's heart, or else he doesn't care, because he doesn't move away, whispering obscene words to him that only increase his distress. The young man feels tears of frustration coming up in his eyes, but he refuses to let them flow: the situation is humiliating enough without that. 

However, he doesn't have enough control over himself to prevent the trembling that runs through his body, nor the growing arousal in his trousers. He knows that the knight is right, his cursed body is betraying him and there is nothing he can do about it. Lancelot feels miserable at the moment - an impure creature that contaminates everything he touches... _Including the Green Knight._ He is pathetic and demonic, finding pleasure in physical pain, the same pain that destroys him piece by piece and breaks his spirit, the same pain that he rejects with all his soul knowing that he deserves nothing else.

The knight frees his arm and the Ashen hasten to bring it back in front of him, clinging to the wood, digging his nails into the fibres, soaking up the pain of the splinters under his nails which distracts him from the one he feels in his heart. The contact of Gawain's warm hands on his shivering skin is pleasant and he lets himself go in spite of himself, praying for more - begging for it to stop.

When the knight whispers in his ear how he would like to use his body and fill it, a shiver of terror runs through him, bringing up ghosts buried deep within the depths of his twisted soul. A cold and stern voice is superimposed on Gawain's soft and sensual one. He gets lost in his own mind, memories merging with reality, and suddenly he becomes the poor, lonely, broken boy tied up in the red tent of a terrifying old priest. Gawain's hand gives him a burst of pleasure mixed with adrenaline, allowing to resurface in a flash of lucidity, and when he opens his mouth, the sound that comes out turns his stomach - a pathetic wail, halfway to the sob.

He tries to push Gawain's intrusive hand away from his crotch, but once again the knight grabs his wrist and pushes it away with one hand, untying the laces of his trousers with the other. The garment slips from his hips, leaving him naked and vulnerable, at the mercy of the cruel old man. 

His body doesn't belong to him, he knows it, he has said it over and over again as he struggled to escape the whip and the fingers of God. But it is a much more degrading torture this time - _less painful, but so much more demeaning._ Lancelot cannot repress the sobs that shake his chest when he feels Gawain's hands on his ass, nor the words that trickle out of his mouth interspersed with shaky breaths as he realizes that he is no longer that pitiful child.

«Please, I'll be good, I won't do it again, please _, no_.»

He doesn't expect Gawain to pay any attention to what he says, but against all expectations, the knight withdraws his hand with a sigh. Lancelot doesn't dare to make a gesture, he hasn't been given permission to move, and the fear of being reprimanded or seeing disappointment in Gawain's eyes is too strong.

«Since I died... my body doesn't react as it did before. But you can help me, Lancelot.»

The Ashen freezes, surprised by the other man's confession. Guilt creeps into his chest at the mention of Gawain's death. He thought that the Wolf-Blood Witch had healed him--to learn that through her fault the knight has physical after-effects... It's hard to hear - hard as a punch in the face. 

The warrior seems reluctant to speak, and this is probably the most confusing thing; he is usually so determined and self-confident.

«You see, my cock seems to only want to go up in your presence.»

He can feel Gawain's hair on his shoulder again, and the rest is whispered in his ear. «You can't imagine how it feels to see you on your knees... To see your body react when I touch you.»

Lancelot relaxes under the gentle voice of the knight. But the fear is too strong and comes back, sharp as a sword when the warm, firm hands return to his ass. The former monk starts sobbing silently, his forehead against the pole, his hands flat on the wood. 

Gawain moves away abruptly, leaving him naked and cold, and when the young man turns around, the knight turns his back, head down, one hand in his hair.

«Go see a healer for your back. And ask Nataël to join me.»

It’s the cold and dry tone that hurts him more than anything else. 

He bends down to pull up his trousers and tightens his laces without raising his head. Lancelot feels ashamed of being so useless, of not even being able to give Gawain what he wants. It's not much even, he's done much worse in the past... 

He comes out of the tent with a last look back, but the other Fay hasn't moved.

Lancelot goes towards the campfire where he is sure to find Nataël. Indeed, he is sitting around the blaze in the company of about ten other Fay. Seeing him, Lancelot feels anger stir up - not against the young Faun but against himself. He doesn't want to ask Nataël to join Gawain, any more than he wants another man to give him what he himself hasn't been able to do. The shame he feels when he thinks back on the knight's words burns his insides. 

It's all his fault. He is so despicable, unable to apologise properly, unable to help Gawain to make amends for his own mistakes... _'Since I died...'_ _Pitiful_ , he is just a pathetic poor thing, a broken tool that is of no use to anyone.

The urge to run and hide in Goliath's mane is strong, but Gawain's disapproving face haunts him; it is not by running away that he will make him proud; it is not by running away that he will be accepted, _forgiven_. Tormented by remorse and determined to assume his responsibilities, Lancelot turns around and enters the tent without bothering to announce himself.

The knight sits on the edge of his bunk, a pensive look on his face replaced by a scowl when he sees him enter.

«I asked you to send me Natael.»

Fay's rough and sharp tone almost makes him turn on his heels, but he can't get out of it now. Gawain has taken him in despite all the harm he has done to him, he can at least do this for him - after all, if all the knight wants is to use his body, why would he refuse him? It has no value, no virtue to protect, nothing more to hide from this man. The little that matters is safe, buried under the rubble of his ruined soul.

A glimmer of amusement passes through the knight's only healthy eye and Lancelot thinks that man may be able to read his thoughts - _No, he wouldn't want to touch him if he could._

«Approach.»

That's all it needed for the young man to find the courage to do what he came back for.

He advances until he finds himself in front of the knight and then drops down on his knees, his face raised towards the other man as if he were contemplating a divine incarnation; admiring his mouth, slightly stretched in a sarcastic half smile, his gaze now darkened by desire. Everything about him reminds Lancelot of the attitude of a predator preparing to pounce on the helpless and subjugated prey he has just drawn into his net.

A disturbing sensation creeps into his chest, a feeling of déjà vu, the impression of having been fooled - of course, Gawain manipulated him, he knew he would come back... _He made sure he would._

It doesn't matter: everything he said was true, just because he said those words intentionally doesn't change the facts. Lancelot raises his trembling hands towards the laces of the knight's trousers, but he is stopped by two firm hands on his wrists. A lump of anguish clenches his throat, but he forces himself to get the words out.

«I am sorry. Let me be good to you... in compensation for all the harm I've done to you.»

He feels the green, piercing look on his neck even if he cannot bring himself to look up. One hand leaves his wrists to slip into his hair and tilt his head back.

«Let's pick up where we left off, in this case. Take off your trousers.»

His blood freezes in his veins at these words, but Lancelot stands up and obeys. His gestures are hesitant under Gawain's inquisitive gaze, but he finally manages to slide the garment to the ground and stays there, waiting for the next instruction.

«On your hands and knees.»

The authoritative voice makes him hesitate for a moment and he must brace himself so as not to disappoint the knight once again. He pushes back the little childish voice in his head that cries out for him to run, and obeys once more. 

Exposed in this way, he feels like a docile and well-trained dog, waiting for his master's congratulations. _It's degrading..._

But isn't that what he deserves in the end? Isn't that what he is? Isn't that what he has always been? What right does he have to claim anything else? Why would the knight give him more respect than a dog?

«Good boy.»

The lust and appreciation that tints the sarcastic and approving words involuntarily makes his blood flow to his groin, and this does not escape the knight, who sighs with amusement.

POV GAWAIN

Gawain studies the young man offered at his feet while unbuttoning his trousers. He is already hard as a rock and it requires all of his concentration so as not to simply sink into this submissive and consenting body that is just waiting for it - after all, if he didn't want the knight to fuck him, he wouldn't have come back... He knew that his words would weigh on the young man's conscience, but he didn't force him to undress, nor did he force him to stand on all fours.

Lancelot's reaction to the unflattering words was almost enough to make him lose all control. This unconscious need to please, to satisfy the form of authority, mixed with this desire for permanent absolution…

Gawain takes a deep breath, forcing himself to keep his calm. He is aware that the Ashman seems to enjoy pain almost as much as Gawain likes to see him suffer, but his aim is not to hurt him - _not intentionally at least_.

He walks towards the former monk and admires the finely chiselled shape of his body, his taut back still bleeding from the treatment he gave him recently, his muscular arms, his round and firm ass - _so desirable_. When his fingertips touch the pale skin of his hips, the young man twitches and all his muscles tense up, as if ready to fight, but the knight knows that he won't move - he is so hungry for attention, for contact... It only takes a little encouragement to make him crawl in the hope of a kind word or a caress. 

And it is this, this despair and hunger, which unleashes in Gawain the desire and need for more; _the desire to see him break under his fingers._ The frightened look and the silent supplication in the moist blue eyes almost make him feel guilty, this innocence that emanates from him. 

_No, there is no innocence in him, he has witnessed it many times._ Only last night he woke up panting and trembling in the dark; writhing to escape the excruciating pain of his skin burned by the fingers of God, his cheeks streaked with tears, his body broken again, his legs dangling, useless, his breath short and gurgling with blood welling up in his lungs.

The hatred he feels is as burning as his desire; it overwhelms him, fuelled by the unspilled tears that fill the young man's blue eyes, widened by fear. _What right does he have to cry over his fate, he who hasn't shed a tear for all the Fay he has killed?_ He will not be softened by the apparent vulnerability of a man who massacred hundreds of his brothers without batting an eyelid.

Brutally pulling Lancelot's head to the side, his fist clenched in his soft blond curls, the knight places two fingers on the Ashen's lips, waiting for him to open his mouth. Meeting his hesitant gaze, he raises an eyebrow.

«If you prefer, I can also do without, but it will be painful. Is that what you want? Do you prefer blood to saliva?»

The former monk shakes his head and opens his mouth hurriedly this time, letting the knight's fingers penetrate the damp heat, gliding over his tongue, his lips tightly on his digits.

It is a glorious sight. The way this man manages to keep his virgin's mask shy gives the scene an obscene, exhilaratingly perverse side. Gawain pushes his fingers deeper, making Lancelot gag, before removing them and starting again, admiring how they come and go, slippery and wet with saliva. _Is he aware of the sensual beauty he's exuding at the moment?_

When he finally judges this to be sufficient, Gawain takes out his fingers and rubs them for a moment on Lancelot's entrance, coating his hole, which is tightened to the touch, then, without preamble, forces them both through the tight muscle ring. 

Lancelot startles violently, pulling forward to get away from him, a hurting yelp gushing from his lips; but the knight blocks any attempt to escape with a firm grip on the young man's hair.

«Relax, it will be easier.»

POV LANCELOT

The feeling of Gawain's fingers in him is not what bothers him. He is grateful to the knight for taking the trouble to prepare him -- he wouldn't have been surprised if he just fucked him without worrying about the rest.

No, what hurts him is the way the man seems to take pleasure in hearing him suffer. His movements become faster and more brutal with each painful moan, each start of his body trying in vain to escape the burning. He does not consciously try to move away; to be honest, it is not something he controls. But despite his efforts to remain stoic, his body refuses to give up the fight; the more he tries to relax, the more his muscles tighten, increasing the friction tenfold.

«That's enough, it's worthless. Since you don't want to do anything about it, there's no point in wasting any more time.»

An uncontrolled sob comes out of his throat before he can hold it back as Gawain removes his fingers. The anger in Gawain's words sends an icy shiver of fear down his back. He hears a rustle of cloth and the sound of spit, and he doesn't need to turn around to guess what will happen next. He wants to be good to the knight, but that doesn't stop the tears from flowing in earnest, no more than it stops his body from shaking like a leaf caught in a storm.

The hard, thick cock breaches him forcefully, giving him no time to adjust before it is buried deep inside him. Looking down on his tense hands, Lancelot realises that his fingers are sinking into the dirt floor, the green winding insidiously around his phalanges, rising up to his wrists. He struggles to make it flow back and concentration distracts him for a moment, before the knight starts to move.

He is not ready, everything is too dry, too rough and he tries to relax in vain. The burning pain is suddenly pushed into a corner of his mind, overshadowed by Gawain's fingers, whose grip on his hair has loosened in favour of a more delicate touch, as if he were trying to encourage him or make him understand that he appreciates his efforts. The fingertips touch his scalp, dragging over the nape of his neck and down his spine like the caress of the leather strap on his skin.

Lancelot shivers as his body burns, consumed by the feeling of the knight inside him and he cannot suppress a low moan, biting his forearm to the point of blood to silence the next one when Gawain pushes his hips forward, a bestial thrust, a perfect contrast with the softness of his hand.

«Don't do that. Let me hear your voice.»

The warm breath tickles his ear and the Green Knight's hand slips over his waist, trapping his hard cock in a firm grip that makes him pant and twist, impaling himself once again on the Fay's thick shaft.

Gawain starts to move back and forth, a slow and deep rhythm, synchronising his hand and hips and Lancelot feels the pleasure growing in his belly, vibrating and hot as his frantic heartbeat. This doesn't eclipse the burning of the knight's cock in his arse, but it's something to hold on to so as not to collapse; the sensation of his blood pulsing in waves, ravaging everything in its path, making his cock throb. He is close, so close, _a_ _few more strokes_ _and..._

But Gawain suddenly stops jerking him off and sinks into his body with a sharp thrust, leaving him panting and frustrated. A hard grip on his jaw makes him turn his head to the side, meeting the warrior's harsh and reproving gaze behind him.

«Don't bite yourself, Ashen.»

The annoyed and commanding tone makes him wince and a flash of anger crosses Lancelot's eyes - _can't he grant him that?_ It is not enough that he humiliates him and uses him as a cheap whore, the knight in his cruelty is only satisfied with his opprobrium. 

He cannot bring himself to let out the degrading sounds that raise in his chest and crowd in his throat, because Lancelot knows that this is not what satisfies the knight - what Gawain wants is for the guards outside to hear him, _for everyone to know what an infamous sinner he is_. With disdainful breath and a defiant look, the former monk bites his lower lip wildly.

A mocking and cruel smile distorts Gawain's lips, visibly determined to tear away what little remains of his self-esteem. The deep movements become savage thrusts, the slap of skin against skin resonating across the tent space, only interrupted by their gasping breaths, and Lancelot knows he won't win this fight. 

The knight takes his cock in hand once again and, once again, abandons it just as the pleasure gathering in his groin threatens to explode. This time, the young man cannot suppress a pleading and painful whimper in the face of the knight's ruthless strategy.

«If you don't give me what I want, I will break you to get it, monk.»

Familiar words freeze his blood, as if his heart had suddenly started pumping a torrent of ice-cold water. Goosebumps erupt on his burning, sweat-soaked skin. _‘Give in, my boy, or you'll break.'_ Another voice, another place, another time, not so different after all. No, that's not true, the knight is not Carden, he doesn't hurt him for no reason. This time he had refused to give up his misplaced pride, he had not bent - he had been left alone to pick up the pieces. 

He looks away in shame and frees his lip from his teeth, earning an approving hum from the other man. The knight loosens his grip on Lancelot's jaw--and tightens it on his neck.

When Gawain starts his game again, with a warm, calloused hand gripping the painfully stiff cock, Lancelot lets a shy gasp come out of his mouth, quickly followed by lascivious sighs and obscene mewls as his climax approaches. A dam seems to have given way, the pressure of emotions secretly contained for too long leaving him powerless to stem the tide, with no way to regain control.

«Do you like me to fuck you, Lancelot?»

The young man nods his head, defeated, but this is not what the knight wants

«Use your words.»

«I love--that my body can--satisfy you, Green Knight. »

Lancelot's thoughts become incoherent as he feels his balls tighten, pleasure overwhelming him. Words get stuck in his throat; he prays inwardly to say the right thing, so that the knight won't stop touching him, ready to admit whatever he wants, to lay bare his heart if it allows him to put an end to this torture.

«I like to feel you inside me - that you fuck me - that you fill me up as if you could fill the emptiness I feel.»

The hoarse sound of pleasure that seems to come from deep inside the knight's chest is all he needs to reach its height; Lancelot comes violently into Gawain's fist, his whole body tense, his muscles contracting around the knight to the rhythm of the pulses of his cock.

The knight continues to ravage him inside, both body and mind, trying to reduce him to nothing when all his limbs are already trembling with exhaustion and pain; Lancelot closes his eyes, concentrating on his breathing and Gawain's, fast, noisy, soon turning into indecent sighs.

The sounds of debauchery fill the young man's ears, oppressing him. He feels so dirty, like those demons of lust that haunted the dreams of some of his red brothers; but the knight seems to enjoy it, and that's the only thing that matters. He tries to think of something else, but it is impossible, the physical pain is too intense; in desperation, he abandons his battered body and closes himself away in his mind, creates a waking dream where he is no longer the Weeping Monk _but only Lancelot_ ; a utopian world where Gawain would have no grudge against him. 

He savours the mental image that forms in his head - he could almost believe it, see the loving smile of the knight, feel a soft touch on his cheek as he takes him with passion and love. 

Gawain puts an end to his daydreaming with a hoarse, heavy voice.

«Stay with me.»

He pulls out with a disgusting noise and a firm hand on his shoulder.

«Get on your back, I want to see your face.»

Lancelot lies down on the cold ground, facing the knight -- but all he can see is the blood smearing his cock.

Reality is there. He is just a tool that the knight is abusing as he pleases out of revenge or simple cruelty - maybe both... _Whatever, isn't that why he is here after all?_ To help the knight and make up for the wrongs he has caused him, for the after-effects of the torture he has suffered at his hands. No matter what it costs him, he knows in his heart that he is ready to give up everything for this man, his pride, his dignity, his heart, his body - _his soul._

«This is something new for you, isn't it? To see your own blood on a sword.»

Lancelot has no time to grasp the mockery, the knight sinks back into himself, resuming the same brutal rhythm without any consideration for his exhausted body ravaged by his recent orgasm. 

The young man does not realise that his hands are on the knight's hips, unconsciously trying to slow down the wild rhythm of his thrusts, lost as he is in watching the man's sweaty face above him, his mouth agape, breathless as he is with effort and exaltation. 

The great Fay bends over, grasping the Ashen's forearms and effortlessly pressing them into the ground above his head, preventing him from hindering his movements. His gaze seems empty as the violence of the strokes continues to increase.

He joins Lancelot's two wrists in one of his hands and rests the other on his throat, taking his breath away as he suddenly bows down, overwhelmed by his release. The Ashman can feel the hot cum pouring into him, the cock deeply buried in his body spasming for a few more seconds before the knight collapses on him, relieving the pressure on his throat. 

He doesn't know what he's supposed to do now; Gawain seems far away, as if captivated by what he sees on his face, his gaze fixed on his lips, _and he's so close_ \- his warm, erratic breath is soft, like a breeze bringing a scent of pine sap and fresh mint. Carried away by an audacious temerity, the former monk closes the distance. He has already seen couples do this kind of thing - _perhaps it is the right thing to do in such situations?_

But pressure on his windpipe pushes him back, pinning him to the ground.

«I have better use for that cheeky mouth later..." The knight whispers the rest of his sentence against the young man's ear. " _O_ _n my cock._ »

The mocking smile cools Lancelot down faster than a bucket of ice cold water to the face.

«Look at you... I just fucked you up the arse, and you want to kiss me.»

Gawain breathes an amused sigh, freeing the young man's arms to let his fingers wander across his chest, his belly, gliding over the semen staining his shivering skin. He rubs his fingertips together, spreading the fluid with a pensive look, before staring into Lancelot's gaze, a warm and condescending look.

The young man's attention is drawn to the movement of the knight's hand, moving up towards his face, stopping a few centimetres from his mouth, but he does not turn his eyes away from the man's fascinating and frightening face. 

The knight's fingers rest on his lips, enter his mouth without resistance, coating his tongue and the inside of his cheeks. The bitter-sweet, disgusting and unbearable taste of his depravity makes him want to vomit.

«Maybe you'd like me to give you to others, to let them see what a slut you are.»

Lancelot’s stomach drops; the knight is right, he is pathetic - he disgusts himself. The young man is almost certain that the horror must be written clearly on his face, because Gawain steps back, laughing, pulling out of him in the same movement with a wet sound - _appalling._

«Do you think I would do such a thing? You are disconcertingly naive... » 

The knight bends down to pick up his trousers and stops when he sees the amount of blood covering his cock, before wiping himself with the piece of clothing. He suddenly looks uncertain, as if he doubts his next words - _as if they were not really meant for Lancelot._

«I am not a _monster._ »


	10. Jealousy

Slightly dazed, with a foggy mind, Gawain watches the young man get up laboriously, a painful grimace on his beautiful face smeared with traces of dry tears. Lancelot doesn't look at him, his head down, he picks up his trousers and quickly puts it on to hide the blood and semen flowing down his long legs. He looks ashamed and scared as if he is afraid that Gawain will beat him if he doesn't hurry out of his tent, _out of his sight..._ He suddenly looks so young and fragile - _vulnerable._

Something is twisting in the knight's stomach. _What has he done?_ This violence, this savagery... it's not like him. Nimue's smiling face appears in his mind - what would she say if she could see him now? What would she think of what he has become?

The young man has finished tying his trousers and seems nervous, not venturing to look up at him or go out, he stands motionless and stooped, his arms crossed as if he was trying to wrap them around him, to hide. _He looks so sad_ \- it is as if no joy, no positive feeling had ever dispelled the darkness that weighs on this soul plunged into a whirlwind of torment. 

Gawain could swear that his eyes are filled with tears. It wouldn't take much for him to collapse, he forces himself to hold the pieces together to keep up appearances, but the whole thing hangs by a thread... Gawain approaches and the young man's muscles tense up, waiting for a blow, an insult, a new nastiness from the knight, but he doesn't run away... Why is he still there? Why is he always so willing to endure without ever defending himself? So submissive - _fucking martyr._ Is it the guilt that drives him to seek suffering, or the devotion he has developed towards the knight?

The realize suddenly strikes him - _he is half naked._ In the succession of events, Gawain didn't let him retrieve his shirt and cape left in the woods by the water's edge. Upset as he is at the moment, the prospect of crossing the camp in this condition, his ravaged back exposed for all to see, must be too intimidating - _more than the prospect of staying close to him?_ asks Gawain, pensively. If he ordered him to come out completely naked, the evidence of his submission to the Green Knight visible on his body, would he do so? The knight shakes his head, disturbed by the sadism he is capable of when it concerns the former monk.

"Sit down on the bed. I'm going to check your back."

The Ashen timidly raises his eyes, surprised by the change in tone, but does not move. 

"I'm sorry... I'm sorry I tried to kiss you."

Lancelot's low, broken voice hits him in the heart. Why does he have to utter such ineptitude? What person is supposed to apologise to his executioner for seeking a bit of comfort? Gawain, overcome by a crushing remorse, comes a little closer to the prostrate young man whose eyes widen in apprehension, and with two fingers under his chin forces him to lift his head. After all that he has taken from him, he can give him this, it's a small price to pay. 

Before he can change his mind, Gawain bridges the distance and gently lays his lips on the former monk's soft, warm lips. He kisses him, and it's comforting - this simple gesture relieves him of some of the guilt that weighs on his heart. _As if it could excuse what he has just done..._ He steps back, feeling the wetness in the place where their mouths are joined. When he looks at the young man's face, tears run silently down his cheeks, his blue eyes filled with pain and guilt.

"Please... let me go, Gawain."

It is only a murmur, a breath, and the knight understands - Lancelot has to dress his wounds, and he doesn't want Gawain to see him crumble. In a burst of compassion, he turns away to grab a clean shirt from the edge of the bunk and gives it to the Ashman who looks at him with uncertainty, then quickly puts it on, as if he was afraid he changed his mind.

"Thank you."

The young man turns away and walks out, his gait stiff and painful. After a few seconds, he hears laughter and derogatory remarks from the guards outside.

POV LANCELOT

Lancelot comes out of the tent, his body sore and bruised, his mind confused by the sudden reversal of the knight's attitude towards him. Why did he kiss him? Was it an act of pity? To apologise, as Nataël showed him? Did he wish to make him understand by this gesture that he cares about him, if only a little bit? He's not sure what pushed Gawain to do this... Maybe he doesn't completely hate him after all.This thought brings him to smile involuntarily, just a draft of a smile tinged with sadness on his lips still bleeding from the bite he inflicted on himself. He is so disturbed that the mockery of the guards in his path reaches him like a faint insignificant rustle - Of course, they have heard everything, a wall of canvas is not enough to stifle a simple conversation, least of all this kind of activity. He is well placed to know that there is no privacy in a camp, nothing stays secret for long when you live in the midst of a warrior army. He is not so naive, he knows that the news will have spread around the camp by the end of the day... 

It's nothing, he will take the scoffing and the laughter as he has always done; but for the moment, he intends to take advantage of the respite to go and get his cloak back. He misses his large hood, the protection it gives him against hateful looks, his armour against the rest of the world. Then he will only have to go and hide his sorrow in Goliath's soft coat, lick his wounds away from prying eyes like a wounded animal.

His plans are swept away by Nataël, who gets up when he sees him approaching the campfire and heads towards him. Lancelot speeds up the pace, eager to avoid any interaction for the rest of the day - _eager to dodge this particular Fay._ He does not regret allowing the knight to use him, he did so knowingly, aware that it would be painful and humiliating; but he is exhausted and keeping up some semblance of dignity takes all his energy. He has to focus already so that he doesn't wince at every footstep. _That's all he needs -_ That he collapses in public, giving everyone another reason to see him as a poor, weak and useless thing.

Unfortunately for him, Nataël catches him a little bit further, putting one hand on his shoulder to stop him. He tensed up, resisting the instinct to strike without delay. He turns around, ready to face what the young Faun has in store for him; but against all odds, the young man simply hands him a bundle of dark cloth. 

"You should be careful with your belongings." He nods his head towards the noisy and cheerful group by the fire." I stopped them from burning this. »

Lancelot gives him an unsure look before taking his cape and shirt from the Fay's hands. He doesn't look aggressive or mocking... His swollen, black eye reminds the Ashen the reason for all this - he had hit Nataël, and Mateo complained to Gawain. Strangely enough, the Faun said nothing; it was even he who stopped the knight while he was administering his punishment. Perhaps he misjudged the young Fay. The latter looks at him and suddenly frowns.

"Come with me, you look like you need a good cup of tea. - or something stronger."

Despite his mistrust and desire for solitude, Lancelot follows him; he is not sure what makes him walk with Nataël towards his tent - the irrational desire that someone cares for him, perhaps; or the stupid and dangerous wish to confide in someone who is not Goliath, to trust, even if he knows that it will end up turning against him, as it has always been the case. A need for confession that he has not fulfilled for months now, for absolution that he will not obtain despite all the prayers he recites, despite all the blows he gives himself... 

When they arrive in front of the Faun's tent, Lancelot notices that Mathéo is present. He leaps up from the lying trunk on which he was sitting and stands threateningly in front of the former monk.

"What are you doing here, monk?"

The tone is aggressive, full of hatred, but also tinged with a latent fear that Lancelot is accustomed to detect in most people who dare to challenge him. Perhaps he is afraid that the Ashman will take revenge for the punishment he has received... If so, he has nothing to fear, he will not disappoint Gawain by raising his hand again on a Fay.

"Relax Matt, I brought him here."

Mathéo stared at them in turn, incredulous, before giving the former monk one last icy look, spitting a kind of raging hiss, and walking away. 

"Don't pay attention, it will pass. Sit down, I'll heat up some water."

Lancelot puts on his large grey cape over Gawain's shirt before obeying, sitting on the trunk where Mathéo previously was standing. He watches Nataël busy himself with a distracted eye. Why did he come? His decision to follow the young man suddenly seems terribly foolish to him. The last time cost him a lot, and now he's doing it again of his own free will... Once is a mistake... _Two, stupidity._ Rising up with a leap, ready to run away, he is stopped by Nataël's hand on his arm. He didn't hear him approaching - the Faun are renowned for having a light and silent foot, he knows that. He turns his head, observing the calm young man from underneath his wide hood.

"Wait, I'd like us to talk together. I want to tell you that I'm sorry about last night. Please stay for a while. »

Examining the face of the Faun, Lancelot sees nothing but sincerity... It's probably a mistake, but he sits down, finding a cup of tea on a flat stone on the ground in front of him. Nataël sits down on the floor, just opposite, his own cup clutched between his fingers, his gaze fixed on the monk.

"I shouldn't have forced your hand. Mathéo is very protective, I should have foreseen what was going to happen." Begins the young man in a soft voice.

Silence sets in between the two young men, uncomfortable. Then, in a low and hesitant voice, Nataël speaks again, looking at his cup of tea as if it could give him the courage to tackle the subject for which he brought Lancelot here.

"I know what happened; in Gawain's tent..." In front of Lancelot's murderous gaze, the young Faun specifies. "The guys who have their tents next door..."

Lancelot has never been so relieved to have his large hood to cover him, to hide the reddening of his cheeks and the embarrassment mixed with shame that must be read on his face. He feels numb, as if his brain is no longer able to function as his infamy known to all is thrown in his face. 

"He wasn't like that - _before._ Since he came back... It's as if he's not really the Gawain I knew."

Nataël's words twist a white-hot blade between his ribs, taking his breath away as the guilt returns, stronger and more stifling than ever. He has destroyed the Green Knight, and now he continues to corrupt him, to torture him by his mere existence, to appear before him, sullying him with his impure feelings and foolishly hoping that this man will end up feeling something other than aversion for him, the cursed and perverse creature who has taken everything from him down to his pure and generous soul. 

"If I had been able to apologise... None of this would have happened."

Nataël raises his eyebrows, disbelief in his eyes, replaced by an amused glow that disappears so quickly that Lancelot thinks he might have imagined it. The Faun shakes his head and sighs.

"It's by making mistakes that you make progress. I can help you to fit in... if that's what you want." Lancelot shakes his head, grateful, then decides to ask the question that has been nagging at him since the day before.

"Gawain and you... I saw you kissing Mathéo..." The Faun blows an amused sound.

"Gawain and I, it's a long story. » 

"So it doesn't bother you? That I let him... touch me? "Nataël laughs again and then looks at him with something resembling compassion.

"Gawain soon gets tired of his one-night stands. He finds a pretty boy, fucks him, and then comes back to me." The young man shrugs his shoulders glibly. "It's always like that with him, you're only the latest. Now that he's got what he wanted, he'll move on quickly, believe me."

The lightly spoken words strike him with the violence of a swarm of angry crows. _No, that's not true,_ he doesn't want to believe it - Gawain is not like that. But deep down, how could he know that? He didn't even know the former Green Knight, how could he claim to know the new one? In desperation, he confesses in a weak, hoarse, _wounded voice._

"He kissed me." Nataël freezes, an annoyed grin stretching his thin lips.

"It doesn't mean anything. Gawain has a good heart, he probably wanted to apologize for being a bit... brutal with you. What did you think it was? _A confession of love?_ Come back down to earth, big boy, I don't know what you've been taught, but that's not the way it's done here. Gawain isn't looking for something serious, he just wants to have fun and take the pressure off... "

He is silent when he sees the mortified expression, the empty, extinguished gaze facing him. Lancelot doesn't look at him, he doesn't look at anything - he sees nothing, he doesn't hear anything either. It is as if he is suddenly swallowed up by tons of freezing water, smothering sounds and light, numbing his body - just as this time his father had held his head in a tub of sea water, his eyes are burning, his lungs are empty and his heart is pumping out nothing but vitiated blood; the world spins mercilessly, turning his stomach with it. What little food he had managed to glean that morning ended up in the dust at his feet. Panic grips him by the throat, his heart beats so fast - he should breathe deeply to calm him down, but he can't get the air out. The ache of his suffocating heart, struggling to keep beating, is like the burning of God's fingers. 

"What the hell, Nataël! What the fuck have you done?"

A firm hand grasps him by the shoulders and straightens him up. He hadn't realised he was on his knees, his hands in the mud. He suffocates, struggles against the hands holding him, he has to get his head out of the water or he will die.

"Breathe, asshole!" A sharp slap makes his head go sideways, bringing the taste of blood into his mouth. The shock brutally fills his lungs with fresh air. He is shaking all over his body. When he looks up at the perpetrator, he finds Mathéo crouching down in front of him.

"I just told him the truth! Gawain takes him for his whore, and he thinks it's love." Lancelot feels so ashamed, the pain behind his ribs is unbearable, making him want to curl up in a ball on the ground and whine like a beaten dog.

"There's something really crazy in your head." Mathéo spits in disgust.

"Don't be too hard on him, I'm sure Gawain is his first. I think he's never even had a girl before."

Lancelot doesn't really listen to what's being said, too panting and exhausted - anxiety attacks are becoming more and more frequent these days... So much so that he sometimes feels like he's going mad, that he doesn't know where he is anymore. He tries to come to his senses, to reconnect with events, to regain a foothold in reality; but it is as if he is struggling in a kind of thick, sticky fog, moving in slow motion. He can' t grasp the meaning of the words of the two Fays. _Maybe he is really losing his mind..._

He has difficulty getting up on his staggering legs like those of a newborn fawn - he can't just stand there, he has to purify himself, he has to get back in control. A hand on his arm stops him in his élan, but he pushes it back with a sudden movement, his legs carry him forward without him really knowing how, as if his body were disconnected. He needs air, space, _to breathe._

However, Nataël does not let himself be left behind. He follows him, an unwelcome presence like that of a scavenger waiting for the agonising beast he covets to finally fall to feed on its remains. _No, he must pull himself together, it is only Nataël._ Lancelot stops, folded in half to catch his breath, one hand resting on the trunk of an oak tree. He is at the edge of the forest.   
His heart calms gradually, the world seems to take shape around him as his thoughts become clearer.

"You love him - _Gawain_ ; you don't pretend then, he's got you too."

The soft voice of the young Faun makes him startle and the Ashman turns his head towards him, unsure of what to do. With a gentle, compassionate smile, blue eyes full of sadness, the young man looks at him as if _he understands._

"Gawain wants what he can't have. If you want him to see you differently, you're going to have to trust me." Lancelot sighs, tired of the situation, longing more than anything for the blessing of solitude.

"Are you going to ask me to apologise again?" Young Fay starts laughing.

"No - that would be a good start, of course, but you'll do it when you're ready. What you need is a way to make _Gawain jealous._ " Natael looks at him, waiting to see Lancelot's reaction and, when he sees that he has his full attention, he resumes the tone of the conspiracy. "Come and see me every night in my tent, and I guarantee that he will change his attitude with you."

Lancelot's eyes widen at the suggestion, surprised by the unexpected help, but even more so because he doesn't need to think to know that he will do it, that he is ready to do anything to get the knight's interest. As if he were reading from his face as well as from the pages of an open book, Nataël continues, with a small sly smile on his lips.

"If you're not ready to trust me, you should stay away from Gawain. You'll just have to watch him lose interest in you little by little until he doesn't even see you anymore. It might be better for you."

POV GAWAIN

That evening, when Gawain decides to go to sleep after a particularly trying day, he can't get to sleep. He turns and turns over on his bunk without finding a comfortable position, his mind bubbling with unpleasant - painful thoughts.

Every time he closes his eyes, Lancelot's face imprints itself behind his eyelids - the tears on his cheeks and the pain in his blue eyes - a suffering deeper than mere physical pain. He can no longer bear what he has become. He knows in his heart that death is not the only thing that has changed him - the torture, the fatigue caused by his night terrors, the loss of Nimue and so many others, the anger at his weakness and his inability to protect them and, above all, the hatred and rage that invades him every time he lays eyes on _the damn monk;_ The desire to make him suffer is every day harder to fight; the compassion he sometimes feels for the young man engenders a burning guilt, when the faces of all the victims for whom the monk is responsible resurface, haunting him, whispering their fears and pains to him.

And then there's Nataël... The words of the Faun go round and round in his head. _'Your little bitch is turning me around.'_ He is not certain of the veracity of these statements, but he cannot help but be tapped by doubt - he insinuates in his heart, gnawing at the little humanity that is still lodged there, filling his mind with an insatiable need for violent revenge. The beast that cohabits in his body wants to be fed and he is not strong enough to resist, to keep it chained and hungry - because he knows that if he doesn't find a way to appease it, this beast will continue to harass him, to gnaw at him, destroying what remains of the Green Knight, devouring him to the bone. _'No one touches him because everyone knows that you want him all to yourself.'_ He can still see Lancelot's pleading gaze, the sobs shaking his body as he had pinned him against the tent pole. _'I could put him in my bed whenever I want....'_ Une colère sourde enfle dans sa poitrine. _'He's a real slut, he'd let the whole camp go over him if he wasn't afraid you'd throw him away. And he knows very well that if you abandon him, he doesn't have anyone to protect him. He's using you, Gawain.'_

What if Nataël was right? What if Lancelot manipulated him by playing the victim, trying to appear weak and broken, waiting for his time to turn against him? It's not so crazy after all, he knows the Weeping Monk, this deceitful murderer, a traitor to his people, ready to use a child as bait to eliminate the runaways... he has shown what he is capable of on many occasions. 

The knight's dreams are full of men in red dresses. He watches helplessly the massacre of his people, again and again, like every night. He observes the scene from above, incapable of the slightest movement, condemned to remain a spectator while his family and friends are tortured, burned, slaughtered, hunted like animals. The heavy, dark atmosphere surrounds and oppresses him, as if he were trapped in the heart of a fire, the dense black smoke engulfing the world in glowing darkness where blood and flames mingle in a macabre dance. The smell of burnt flesh, the groans of agony and the screams of pain seem to come from deep within his soul - maybe it does. And in the midst of this hell stands the tall, dark, menacing figure of a hooded man, ghostly in front of the glowing halo of the furnace - a vision of horror within the nightmares, the hood letting only darkness be perceived and, in the heart of this darkness, two orbs reflecting the unhealthy, incandescent glimmer of the inferno. 

Gawain wakes up with a jolt, his breath short and soaked in sweat, a primal fear embracing his heart, the terror of a tracked animal that feels the breath of the dogs on his heels. He sits down and presses the palms of his hands over his eyes, hoping to erase the horror of his vision. A frustrated wail of distress rises from his throat as the physical and nervous exhaustion he feels makes his arm muscles tremble. Will it ever stop? Why does he have to endure this torture night after night without ever finding the rest he desperately longs for? The tears he holds back start to flow, warm and soft on his cold skin, taking with them a little bit of the Green Knight's soul.


	11. Need a friend?

Lancelot feels stupid. Accepting to meet Nataël every evening in his tent in the hope of making a man who hates him jealous... _Father has to turn over in his grave._ Yes, but Father is no longer there. He can no longer count on his advice to keep him on the right path; he can no longer count on the fear he inspired in him to keep him from temptations. Because he let him die. His throat is tied by guilt. His feelings about his father are always confused - love and hate, hope and disappointment, sadness, frustration, anger... He has always been good at containing them, at showing only what father expected of him, but father is dead and he doesn't know what Gawain wants him to be.

Nataël clears his throat, recalling his presence. He is still waiting for an answer. They are sitting in the tent, the young Faun on the edge of his bunk and Lancelot on the ground, legs crossed. He doesn't know how to answer that. _'Do you miss the paladins?'_ A part of him does; that part which aspires to ease, to oblivion, to redemption. Life among the paladins was hard, of course, but simpler in a sense - no decisions to be made, no reflection on what he should be or do, he just had to follow orders, obey, walk the father's path. Physical suffering is a soft thing compared to the pangs of guilt and remorse that torment his mind. He must move forward, continue to breathe, continue to live, despite the crushing weight that makes his back bend, makes his steps uncertain and stumble. But perhaps this is the true path to redemption? His personal Way of the Cross for taking so many innocent lives, inflicting so much suffering, depriving so many poor people of their parents, children, friends... He cannot help wondering if this is what hell is like - an endless atonement, with no goal to guide him, a torment he cannot escape; perhaps he has already died in the end... Perhaps he died at the same time as the Green Knight. 

"I regret the time when all that didn't matter."

The Faun frowns at this vague answer. How could he understand? He has never had to question his beliefs, his allegiance. He fights against the paladins for the survival of his people, for his life. Lancelot is fighting against himself _to not end his own,_ and it's a long-term fight. The hatred he feels for himself is far more fierce than any pyre, more vicious than the lashes of his father's whip, sharper than the blade of Brother Salt's knife. The animosity he has to face is finally not so different from that of men blood, even if he has not been tortured, if he is not in chains... But then why does he feel the need for more? The need to be accepted and not tolerated? The need to be appreciated and not just useful... A sword should not desire comfort, friendship - a weapon should not desire to be held gently, _to be handled with love..._ He doesn't even know these things, how can he want something he doesn't understand? _That he doesn't deserve?_ No, he doesn't regret the paladins, he regrets not being able to be anything other than what they have made of him. Nataël sighs and shakes his head in exasperation.

" Whatever! It doesn't matter because you're here now, and I'm here to help you." A small smile stretches the corner of his mouth as he looks mischievously at the former monk. _'I am here to help you.'_ Lancelot frowns, distrustful. What does Nataël want to help him for? If there's one thing the Paladins taught him, it's that nothing in life is ever free.

"Why?"

"Because you need a friend." The confused look on the Ashman's face earned him a laugh from the young Faun. But he doesn't pay any attention to it. Natael's answer stirs something in him, as if a wave of heat and nostalgia were spreading in his chest, bathing his heart with a sweetness he doesn't remember ever feeling. He never had a friend, at least not that he remembers... There was no child his age when he arrived in the Paladins and when he became a teenager his father soon discouraged him from forming relationships with the few boys who had joined the ranks. He had to keep his demonic nature a secret. He was not to be distracted from his mission by something as futile as friendship - his free time was to be devoted to repentance. 

Lancelot remembers once when he challenged the authority of Father Carden; they had stayed for a few days in an inn at an ecclesiastical assembly to which his father had been invited to discuss the problem of the Fey and the notorious lack of progress in his fight against the swarming demons in the country.He was not allowed to attend the meeting and therefore had to find a way to keep himself busy; as he walked through the streets, savouring that rare moment of freedom, a 14-year-old boy had offered to come and play with him and his friends. They had organised a mock tournament. The children were clad in pieces of bark supposedly representing knight's armour, all decorated with colourful motifs and adorned with coats of arms, each more extravagant than the next. They fought with wooden swords. Lancelot had joined them, forgetting his father's warnings, all to his joy and excitement at finally having play mates. Unsurprisingly, he had defeated each of his opponents in turn, and as he savoured the pride of his victory, one of the children cried out: "It's not fair, you're not human, your hands are all green, you cheated, you monster!"

The accusation had frozen him as he looked down, seeing with horror that the green was indeed covering his hands up to his wrists. He looked up and saw his father's cold and implacable gaze as he sat on the edge of the small fountain in the centre of the square. He didn't know how long the old man had been watching him, but the fury in his eyes, contrasting with the relaxed attitude he was trying to maintain, told him that he had seen enough. That evening, when he returned to the auberge, he had been beaten so badly that he couldn't get up for three days. The father had also plunged his hands into the pot of stew boiling over the chimney fire until he fainted. This had taught him a lesson - he was not to get involved with anyone. But it's different now. He no longer has to hide his identity; he is just a demon among the others here... And the prospect of having a friend is so tempting - _so comforting._

 _"_ For a start, you should stop hiding in dark corners as if you were trying to swoop in on the first one like the Widow - you scare everyone. To get others to stop seeing the Weeping Monk in you, you need to change your attire and attitude."

Despite his reluctance, the Ashen lets the other young man take off his hood and look at him attentively. The desire to escape this inquisitive gaze is strong, but the desire to believe Nataël even more - he needs to believe him. Lancelot reacts too late when a soft hand glides into his hair, removing the pin that was holding the hair bun.Suddenly turning around, the curls falling around his face, he grabs Nataël's wrist, twisting it before freezing, his breath gasping. He mustn't hurt him. It wasn't an aggression, just a hairpin... 

"Calm down, everything is fine. I'm not going to attack you with... That's the kind of attitude I was talking about." In front of the young Faun's amused look, the former monk suddenly felt stupid... Friends are supposed to trust each other, right? Letting go of the other Fay, he looked down with a contrite look on his face, expecting him to ask him to leave, but he didn't. With a soft, soothing voice, he resumes. "Well, we'll see about the outfit later; would you let me fix your hair?"

Looking up, Lancelot nods slightly, preparing for contact with determination, his heart quickly pounding his chest like before a fight. It's stupid, there's no danger, and yet Nataël's hands slip into his hair and he expects them to close in on the locks at any moment to force his head back. His instinct tells him to strike, to attack before the other does, to move away from the touch that is too invasive, too intimate, _too pleasant._ He tenses up, ready to pounce when the Faun's fingers get stuck in the knots in a too familiar traction. Nataël's voice defuses the crisis of anguish that twists his stomach.

"First lesson: relax.No one will come near you if they think you're going to jump down their throat every time someone move." With his cheeks red with embarrassment, Lancelot turns his head away, trying in vain to escape the Fey's amused gaze. "And stop acting like a frightened virgin every time someone looks at you... Or you might have another problem."

The young man starts to untangle the hair from the Ashen with gentleness, taking care not to pull too hard and Lancelot thinks about his last sentence. What does he mean by 'another problem'? Nataël seems to be guessing his thoughts and explains offhandedly.

"You see, there are very few women here... And I have to admit that you are rather cute when you blush." Mortified by the insinuation, the former monk turns his head to face the Faun, his eyebrows furrowed, the anger clearly visible on his face, a dangerous aura emanating from his whole being. Nataël raises his hands as a sign of appeasement. "Calm down, I wasn't saying that for me! No one is going to jump on you if that's what worries you... But you have to understand that the Fey have a rather _free lifestyle..._

When you start making other friends... You risk getting proposals... if you know what I mean - and I don't think you're ready for that kind of thing." Incomprehension gave way to anger in the big blue eyes of the Ashman, and Nataël continues, a mischievous smile stretching his lips, the smile of a cat who caught a canary. "We don't have as many taboos as the menblood when it comes to sex. Kissing a man or a woman is a natural thing... Rejecting a friend can be seen _as indelicate,_ even rude - it's like telling someone they're ugly, or that they don't deserve you."

Confused and embarrassed by what he has just learned, Lancelot turns around, pensive, letting Nataël finish his work. He doesn't know what to think of this strange custom, the opposite of everything he was taught from a very young age. But once again, the education he has received has nothing in common with the people he now belongs to... How could he understand this having been educated among the Paladins?

He who was never considered as an Individual, but as an object, just good to be used without any consideration for his personal needs and desires? Maybe this way of doing things is not so bad after all... Giving oneself voluntarily for the good of others, rather than being forced by strength, fear and violence.

The gentle caress on his scalp is something new; no one has ever touched him like this - maybe it's something normal between friends... But then again, how could he know? Nataël glides his fingers along the full length of the curly blonde locks without any resistance now, and it's a strange feeling, because Lancelot could swear that his body is as supple and malleable as his hair. Every time the young man's nails touch the skin of his skull, tingling sensations explode behind the nape of his neck, running down his back and up his nerves to the tips of his toes; a kind of pleasant numbness that seems to take over his brain, taking away all his will and strength. Lost in sensations, he lets out a sigh of well-being quickly followed by a small amused sound of the Faun; strangely enough, he doesn't mind - as long as his hands don't stop, he can say what he wants. Plunge into a semi-conscious state, the Ashen doesn't realise that he is falling asleep under the soft touches of Natael.

******

His brain seems to float in a soft and pleasant mist as he comes out of Nataël's tent for the third evening in a row; His field of vision is slightly restricted, his movements slower and less assured than usual, even his thoughts seem to swirl around in his head like smoke, impossible to grasp, elusive... Every time he concentrates on one of them, it is as if he is trying to hold an eel with his bare hands ; the thoughts slide and escape - but he doesn't struggle to hold them back, in the state of relaxation and euphoria in which he finds himself.

Nataël considered it imperative for him to relax and, seeing that he couldn't do so, decided that it was judicious to give him a helping hand. Despite his reluctance, the young man had grasped the carved wooden pipe that the Faun was handing him and inhaled the acrid smoke through the tube, feeling it invade his lungs. The fear of suffocation had quickly given way to a feeling of relaxation and lightness, as if his brains were floating in the middle of a light and reassuring mist. Then he started laughing, without even knowing why or how - it was such an incongruous sound that he looked at Nataël, sitting on the bunk next to him, with round, surprised eyes, as if the sound could in no way come from him. _And yet it did._ After that, the young Faun approached and raised his hand, slowly, cautiously, as if he was gauging the reaction of a wild animal that could bite him at any moment - which would have been the case if he hadn't been so careless and relaxed at the time.

Nataël's fingers were warm on his cheek, gently descending along his black tears with a kind of fascinated curiosity, an almost tender delicacy. All he had been able to think at that moment was how much he wished it had been _Gawain._ He couldn't hold back the tears of pain that followed, overflowing from his eyes to roll down to his jaw. Natael's words had then left him confused and perplexed. 

"I am sorry. I wish there was another way." "The touch on his cheek had given way to a soft, firm hand holding his face towards the Faun, soon followed by lips, even softer, on his other cheek, intercepting a tear and withdrawing as quickly as they had come.

Still undecided about his own feelings, Lancelot now heads for the place where he knows he will find the one whose unfailing support has given him the courage and strength to stay alive until now. Night begins to darken the camp, the long shadows of the tents painting long dark shapes on the ground, like ghosts of grotesque creatures, dancing in the breeze in synchronisation with the movements of the canvas walls. Looking down, he notices his own familiar ghost lying at his feet; The shadow of the little braids that now adorn his hair gives him the sudden impression of contemplating something foreign and, with a strange feeling of vulnerability, he pulls his hood down over his head, feeling the thick, rough fabric like a protective blanket - it's better, it's as if he can blend in among the surrounding shadows now, something familiar. The silence around him is soothing, almost frightening, encircled as he is by the dark and threatening silhouettes, and it is with relief that he finally sees Goliath's shape a little further on.

The tall black stallion is barely visible in the dim light under the trees that line the camp, an imposing beast, blacker than the shadows themselves. In his foggy mind, he suddenly feels like the messenger announcing death joining his mount, the black horse that precedes the white rider, the last scourge of the apocalypse announced by the holy writings - that is what he is, an omen of death; whatever he does to change this, he knows that he will not be able to fight against fate, his childish attempt to transform the demonic weapon he has always been into a simple Fey is doomed to failure.

Goliath approaches at a slow pace, raising his head out of reach when he raises a hand to touch his muzzle, snorting. Of course, it has been three days since he came to see him... With a small sorry smile on his lips, he starts to speak in a soft voice.

"Forgive me, I shouldn't have left you alone for so long." The horse lets out a sigh, warm and powerful, that sweeps the face of the Ashen under the cowl. Holding Goliath's head, he lays his forehead gently against the horse's nose and whispers, reassuringly. "Please don't be angry with me, I've made a friend and this is so new to me... But I'll never let you down, brother."

**********

The evenings follow one another and Lancelot continues to visit his new friend, confidence growing with each gentle gesture, each understanding word. It is not something the Ashman controls, it is against everything he has learned; it is beyond his instinct that dictates mistrust - but despite his experience of betrayal, his barriers fall one by one, exposing his bruised heart once again; like an abandoned dog crawling pitifully at the feet of the first charitable soul he finds in the hope of a caress, of comfort. He knows in his heart that he has a better chance of getting kicked than anything else, but his despair and loneliness pushes him to take the risk, to tempt the devil once more - because as long as the little flame of life and hope shines within him, he has no choice; the urge to believe that he has a right to friendship, though he deserves only hatred, is stronger than any instinct for self-preservation.

So when Nataël takes him out that evening, saying that he has to get closer to the others to integrate, that he is ready to get involved in the life of the camp, he accepts. However, he can't bring himself to take off his hood and the Faun ends up giving in, even if Lancelot can tell his annoyed tone that he doesn't like it.

As he approaches the centre of the camp and the fires around which the Fey are grouped as they do every night, the young man hesitates, his legs stop by themselves and his eyes widen with fear. The last interactions he had with his people have not ended pleasantly for him, and his whole body seems to be struggling to keep him away from danger, to keep him from throwing himself into the lion's den. It takes all his willpower and the slightest touch of Nataël's hand on his arm, as light as a feather, to make him move forward again; he feels like a restive horse that one would force to cross a burning village. 

Nataël leads them towards a fire and Lancelot feels a whiff of gratitude when he notices that it is certainly the least populated tonight - only Mathéo and two other Fey he doesn't know, a young snake and a slightly older Faun. In spite of everything, the hateful glances he receives at his approach and the whispers exchanged by the two strangers make him lower his head, hiding his face under his hood to avoid being seen.

"Did you have to impose your dog on us, Nataël?" The deep, soft voice, tinged with resentment, belongs to Mathéo and Lancelot is about to turn back when Nataël's grip tightens on his arm, forcing him to stay. 

"Be nice Mathéo, I'm sure that if everyone makes an effort everything will go well." Mathéo sighs, disgusted, but doesn't protest, turning his head to avoid having Lancelot in his field of vision. It's probably the best he can get for the moment, he should be satisfied, savouring this small victory, but he knows that without Nataël the situation would have degenerated; Mathéo makes an effort for his friend, not for himself - _just as the warriors in the camp refrain from putting him to death for Gawain._ He is dependent on the protection of others and this thought makes him angry... _All this for what?_ A hot meal, a tent and the continuous weight of the resentment of a whole kind, most of which he has massacred? He could kill them all if he had his swords - _he could kill them anyway,_ stealing a sword from one of these so-called warriors wouldn't be a very complicated thing _if he wanted to;_ but what would Gawain say? He would probably kill him, or worse, maybe the knight would abandon him, wounded, in front of a camp of paladins, leaving it up to others to put an end to his existence, probably at the stake, so as not to have to get his hands dirty. Gawain would hate him, that's for sure - at least more than he already does. And what if he was left alone, on his own? What if the Green Knight banished him, never wanting to set eyes on the unworthy thing he is? No, the pain that embraces his heart at this thought is too unbearable... To bear the hatred of his people is much easier than to expose oneself to the anger and disgust of the knight. - It does nothing, however, to alleviate the frustration that makes him grit his teeth at the mocking looks of the two Fey on the other side of the fire; any more than the pervasive guilt that builds up in his throat at Mathéo's sly remark about the haematoma on Nataël's face.

If only he had the opportunity to show them his worth, to prove to them that he is trustworthy, that he has learned from his mistakes and sincerely wants to make up for the horrors he has committed. But the time hasn't come yet; the paladins haven't found the camp and Gawain has decided to take advantage of this lull. For then, their numbers don't allow them to attack head-on, the knight's strategy consists of doing nothing, waiting for their numerous enemies to confront and kill each other. It is still the best thing to do, but it has drawbacks... Warriors are not made to be patient, their thirst for blood finding no outlet is dangerous for cohesion - all the more so for a former enemy who does not integrate. How long before altercations between clans turn into killings? How long before they decide that Lancelot must die no matter what Gawain thinks?

The pressure on his shoulder makes him turn his head and he crosses the interrogative gaze of the Faun. "Sit down and relax, okay?"

He doesn't answer but obeys, sitting next to Nataël, with his legs crossed. The ambient tension is palpable, but Nataël is not destabilised by the reticence of his friends; Lancelot can only admire the aplomb and the casualness of the young man who does not lose his smile and his cheerful air. "Mathéo, did you bring the bottle of mead?" 

The brown turns and grabs his satchel, pulling out a bottle filled with a golden liquid and pretending to give it to the young Faun before stopping halfway through, a small, petty smile stretching his mouth.

"You're not planning to give your animal a drink, are you? It would be casting pearls before swine... The church is against any drink that isn't wine, it's well known."

Nataël bends down to grab the bottle, looking annoyed. Mathéo's words sound like a provocation to Lancelot's ears, a challenge to show that he belongs to the pagan Gods, _those hidden ones_ , to prove that he has renounced his obedience to the laws of the church. _Don't get drunk on wine, it would lead you to a life of disorder, but be filled with the Spirit._ Father's words beat in his head, grave and vindictive, but he nevertheless takes the bottle that the Faun hands him. Apprehension fights over the place with a sense of bravado and childish independence as he raises his arm to bring the bottle to his lips, feeling a strange pride in daring to disobey his father's teachings, to defy the word of God. _The wine is full of insolence, and the alcohol full of fuss, which lets itself be exhilarated by it, cannot be wise._

The hydromel is soft and sweet, an astonishing contrast to the burning that goes down his throat when he swallows. It's not a sin if he doesn't get drunk... the sin lies in excess. Even though Carden always said that the first sip was already an excess - only as far as Lancelot was concerned, however; he justified this by warning him of his demonic nature, which drinking would only exacerbate. The paladins seemed to appreciate this, he had often seen them getting drunk around campfires in the evening. He took a sip again, appreciating the flavour of honey that remained on his tongue, the heat that radiated from his entrails to spread to his limbs, before returning the bottle to Nataël.

The bottle passes from hand to hand, going around the Fey and the atmosphere seems to warm up as the minutes go by. The conversation becomes more daring, the laughter more frank, but he doesn't pay attention to it; Lancelot has never participated in such social gatherings, but he knows that an intervention on his part would put an end to the general good mood; so he enjoys the drink and the company.   
He doesn't feel accepted, at most tolerated - or perhaps they have simply forgotten his presence, a grey shadow on the black background of the night that has been falling for some time now.

The world around him seems blurred from minute to minute as the mead bathes his consciousness. Nataël's hand is on his thigh, he doesn't know how long it's been there, he only notices it because it starts to move, a slow, gentle, light movement - Nataël caresses his thigh and he doesn't take offence... Should he? What is the reason for this? Nataël is his friend, and if he is honest with himself, the soft touch is pleasant, it anchors him in reality, prevents his mind from wandering to the dark, anxious areas that are pressing down to the edge of his consciousness. Lancelot clings to the sensation of the Faun's fingers gradually drifting towards the inside of his thigh and a sigh of appreciation escapes him without him realising it. His body seems so heavy, his thoughts wandering, a strange feeling of euphoria and confidence overwhelms him, and the realization sends an adrenaline rush into his chest, making him raise his head abruptly. He meets Nataël's eyes, his eyes are red, glassy, with a glimmer of amusement and... _desire?_ The wide, dark pupils pointing towards his own, come down towards his mouth and the Faun bites his lip with lust. 

Lancelot is no longer aware of his surroundings, all his foggy attention is focused on his friend. He looks for a reason to move away, to push away contact, but he finds none. The intensity of Nataël's gaze sends a shiver down his spine, fear? Desire? He doesn't know, a little of both probably. The hand on his thigh becomes firmer, insistent, _avid_. The heat that has long since invaded his body is oppressive, his breathing accelerates, panting, his mouth ajar. He is at the mercy of a predator and his survival instinct has disappeared - he doesn't feel the need to move away, he doesn't want the contact to stop, he likes that burning, hungry look.

The bottle is in Nataël's hand and Lancelot watches him bend his head back and swallow a gulp of golden liquid, then the Faun's blue eyes are again on him, questioning. He doesn't react when the young man brings the neck of the bottle to his lips, pouring a little mead between his lips, he swallows by reflex, captivated by the graceful movements of the young man on his knees facing him. 

Nataël seems to notice his state of semi-consciousness, a soft and amused noise hovers in the air between them while a forgiving and mischievous smile illuminates his face. The Faun addresses him a few words that he can't understand, then takes a sip of mead before sliding his hand under the jawbone of the Ashen and tilting his head back, his face a few centimetres above his own; The next thing he feels is Nataël's soft lips on his own, his mouth still ajar, and the young Faun's tongue brushes his lower lip as the alcohol, which he has obviously not swallowed, flows into his mouth. It is sensual and more intoxicating than the drink itself. Lancelot lets himself go, overwhelmed by the sweetness of the moment, by the need to feel loved, by the heat that seems to burn in his veins. He copies the movements of his lips with the enterprising movements of Nataël, letting the young man devour him with a necessity and gratitude that brings tears to his eyes, with a hunger and urgency that he didn't know he was capable of.

He is brutally brought back down to earth by a sharp, raging voice that he knows too well. Shame and guilt make him leap backwards when he becomes aware of the position he is in. What has he done? He just let Nataël kiss him - _worse, he kissed him back, he liked it._ Caught in the moment, he didn't see the knight approaching; how long has he been there? Long enough if he is to believe the flashes of anger that his bright green eye throws, which seems to want to strike him down on the spot.

"Nataël, take him back to his tent immediately. "The young man has the good sense not to reply. He gets up and Lancelot tries to do the same, but as soon as he gets up, the world starts to turn violently and his body sways as if he was standing on the deck of a boat. Nataël's firm hand catches him by the elbow, stabilising him just barely. He vaguely hears Mathéo laughing, mocking, and the other two Fey exchanging a joke about how the evening is going to end; but the only thing that matters is the look Gawain gives him, a cold, hateful and angry look. The mead suddenly begins to turn in his stomach, a violent upheaval makes him bend in two, restoring the whole evening on the grass. Nataël leaps away. The pungent, acidic smell burns his nose and, without Nataël's support, he finds himself on his knees, breathing heavily in an attempt to calm the nausea, his eyes closed so that he can no longer see the unstable world around him, the anguished blurred faces, the dazzling dancing fires, the ground ready to open under his feet to engulf him, to send him straight to hell probably. Lancelot rarely felt so bad, so powerless - father was right, liquor is an instrument of the Devil to pervert and deprave the weak, those whose faith is not strong enough.

The back of the knight's hand collides with his cheek in a resounding manner, catching him off guard; the young man rocks to the side and puts his hands on the ground to steady himself.

"Pull yourself together! You are pathetic." The scornful words and the disgusting tone hurt him, the tears rise again, threatening to overflow, but for a completely different reason this time. The pain he feels is not only due to the fact that the words are spoken by the knight - they sound like déjà vu, a reminder... Whatever he does, he is a source of disappointment to all those who try to give him a chance.

He feels himself being pulled forward by the back of his cape and stumbles as he tries to get up to follow the movement, finally managing to pull himself up on his legs, the world still changing and hypnotic around him. 

Gawain's brutality, added to his senses made weak and treacherous by drink and his weak, perfidious body, bring up forgotten, painful things. He can almost feel father's brutal grip on the back of his neck as the world around him becomes a little blurred with every second, with every beat of his frantic heart. The smells he perceives, distorted by his drunkenness, are so similar to those of his memories that they become tangible, in a confusing and frightening way. He feels weak and vulnerable in the hands of this far too big, far too strong man - he is only a teenager after all... Or is it his mind playing tricks on him again? He doesn't know anymore, and it doesn't matter; all he knows is that he will be punished.

Lancelot's knees violently hit the tent floor, the pain like a cold shower making him regain consciousness. He stands up with effort, facing the Green Knight who is staring at him, perhaps waiting to see what he intends to do to make it up to him. What if Gawain was simply jealous that he had kissed Nataël? Maybe that's all he's angry about, not the fact that he's drunk... Maybe the Green Knight just wants to make him understand that he feels abandoned, replaced... If he could show him that it's not the case, that Nataël doesn't count, that he's the only one that the Ashen desire, then maybe Gawain will be indulgent.

Lulled by an absurd hope and warmed by mead, relying on the borrowed courage he draws from his drunkenness, the young man steps forward and grabs the shirt of the stoic and icy knight, pressing himself against him to reach his lips; but before he attains his goal, Gawain frees himself from the derisory grip and the back of his hand meets his face for the second time of the evening, sending Lancelot crashing at his feet, eyes wide open in stupor. What has he done? It is not the knight who dominates him now... It is only the alcohol against which father has warned him many times that makes him delirious, the infamous demon that he is. How could he have lost himself so far in his desires that he confused them with reality? Father's face is rigid, his eyes narrowed in a scrutinizing and reproving attitude that gives him shivers down his spine. He has gone too far this time. His heart pounds his ribs mercilessly, his blood rushes in cold, prickly pulses through his veins and tears flow, turning into sobs as he knows what he has to do - his last chance to escape the worst. 

"Forgive me - I promise I'll be a good boy - don't hurt me - I beg you. »

Encouraged by the lack of reaction from the other side, he drags himself, stumbling, on his knees, to come and rub his bruised cheek against the rough cloth covering the old man's crotch. Father still does not move, he will forgive him if he does it properly this time. With hesitant hands, he pulls on the laces holding the garment... But a firm hand grasps his wrist, pulling him away from a jerk. Fear grips his throat, tears flow more and more. When he looks up, his father's gaze is a mixture of curiosity, horror and pity that makes him uncomfortable. He doesn't know what is expected of him, and it is a dangerous - _terrifying_ \- situation.

  
  



	12. dignity

It's been three days. Three days that Gawain has been watching, angry and frustrated, Lancelot's comings and goings in Nataël's tent. The anger gets a little more burning each time he sees the Ashen coming out of the tent.The first evening with his hair braided, the second evening with a shirt he wasn't wearing when he entered, green, visible under his half-open cape, and tonight... Tonight the Ashman are _clearly stoned._ He doesn't need to smell the smoke that surely emanates from inside the tent - the glassy blue eyes edged with red tell him everything he needs to know.

What exactly did he expect? Hadn't Nataël warned him? Why this anger, this frustration? He had fun with the former monk, nothing prevents him from doing it again... Why should the fact that Nataël also had fun with him bother him? He can't explain this feeling of possessiveness that twists around his stomach like a snake, growing and growing until it fills all the space. 

He doesn't pass in front of Nataël's tent every evening at the same time when he comes back from his patrol intentionally... No, it's a pure coincidence that his tour systematically ends on this side of the camp. At least that's what the knight tries to convince himself of on his way back to his tent. He has neither the desire nor the strength to join others to chat and drink around campfires, he prefers to isolate himself and eat alone, brooding over his anger and frustration in the company of the insidious and treacherous little voice that whispers in his ear words oozing gall. Gawain doesn't want to show this side of himself to his men. He manages to keep up appearances during the day, but when evening arrives, with the light fading and the shadows getting longer, the voice in his head seems to grow in power until it becomes dangerously invasive. 

The truth is that every evening the beast within him seems to become more tangible, more real - more intimate; as if it were gradually mingling with his soul until it becomes a part of him, as if this voice were no longer someone else's but his own. His violent and hateful thoughts no longer surprise him as they did at first; What he used to take for repugnant ramblings induced by his broken mind are now coherent and logical statements, something he feels in agreement with and that sometimes frightens him, when a part of what he used to be before resurfaces. Hateful feelings and sordid desires, which he tried in vain to push away not so long ago, have now taken over, dragging him a little deeper into the abyss each night as the monster appears in broad daylight, in all its bestiality, its cruelty. _It is all the fault of this damned monk._

The voice resurfaces, soft, deep, seductive. _"Why should you hide? Accept what you have become, Green Knight. Accept, and you will be at peace with yourself. Accept, and you will be strong and respected again."_ Pressing his head hard in his hands, he tries to silence the beast, but it hasn't obeyed him for a long time now. 

That evening, the knight surprised Nataël taking Lancelot to the campfires. He tries to persuade himself that he is indifferent to the complicity and trust that seems to be born between them, but this is not the case. 

Locked up in his tent, he struggles not to burst into the midst of his men in the state of murderous rage in which he finds himself, when the voice tells him to get up, get out and take back what is his. No one has the right to steal what he owns. No one has the right to detach from him as if he were just something embarrassing, to be discarded with a wave of the hand, as if he were nothing. The monk does not have the right to _abandon him_ , the man he destroyed, the man he _killed;_

He can't get away with it, Gawain can't afford to lose to this _traitor_ , this _miscreant_. He must go and get him and make him pay, make him crawl at his feet begging for forgiveness. When he gets close to the fires, he freezes, shocked by the scene unfolding before him.

It's strange how his heart tightens painfully at the sight of Nataël devouring Lancelot's reddened and swollen lips; even stranger is the mixture of jealousy and desire burning in his belly, which makes him want to strike Nataël, put Lancelot face down and take him without a preamble, in the middle of the camp, displaying his possessiveness and bestiality in front of the assembled crowd of his warriors. It is a monstrous thought, which becomes more and more tempting as the frontier of his morality collapses, mixing good and evil in a dance where only his desire counts, only the envy that fills his body and his brain is important, dictating his conduct, taking precedence over the established codes of decency. 

Trembling with rage, he enters the circle of moving light that surrounds the fire, bathing the faces raised towards him in an unstable glow. Only Lancelot does not see him, too busy satisfying his appetite for the mouth of another. Nataël looks at the knight without moving his lips away from those of _his_ monk, a gleam of amusement and defiance in his eyes that only serves to fan the blazing embers of his anger. He can almost hear the words, which Nataël does not say, through this look: _'I warned you, you knew and you preferred to bury your head in the sand. You thought you saw vulnerability where there is only perversion and manipulation'_. What can you expect from someone who has turned his back on his faith? To his God? Doubt creeps into his mind, insidious and pernicious. Has the monk really abandoned his faith? Can he be certain that this is not just another ruse, a manoeuvre to save his own skin or worse, _to infiltrate the enemy camp?_ How can he be sure of anything? - The knight asks himself.

The face of the Ashman is a work of art in this moment, his half-open mouth, the fire projecting the shadow of his long eyelashes on his raised cheekbones, the half-closed eyelids, the red cheeks of alcohol abuse, lost in a mist of lust... He personifies debauchery, indecency, a perverse innocence that is _properly obscene._ His shoulders are relaxed, he is not on alert, there doesn't seem to be any mistrust in him at this moment - This is undoubtedly the worst, knowing that this is the first time he sees him so exposed, stripped of this armour of mistrust, _and it is not for him._ This truth only reinforces his hatred. The young man has never seemed more alive than at that moment, and this creates a void in the knight's chest, a cold and dark hollow, enlarging the monster's den and allowing it to grow.

  
  


When he speaks, his voice trembles with wrath, the young man jumps as if he had been hit and walks away from the Faun, his attention focussed on the knight; Gawain can almost hear the workings of his brain, intoxicated by the mead, getting carried away as he seems to be looking for the right thing to do without finding the answer.

Fear makes his eyes widen - his beautiful eyes, surrounded by red and wet, of a blue dark, moving and changing in the glow of the flames, gives him the impression of contemplating the ocean under the moonlight. The black tears running down his cheeks seem to flow and ripple as moving shadows sway across his face, giving him an almost unearthly air - _a weeping angel,_ fallen, and magnificent in his disgrace.

Tangling on his unstable legs, Lancelot suddenly starts to vomit and Gawain cannot repress a feeling of satisfaction to see him thus expiate for his debauchery; it is a just return of things, a deserved punishment for a depraved monk of his kind. 

The knight contemplates for a moment the Ashen trying to come to his senses, looking lost and out of phase; but it takes too long, and he loses patience before the pitiful spectacle offered by this man, once his most feral opponent. How could he become so weak and pathetic? How can this man let himself be groped by Nataël, that little thing always so eager to have his mouth filled, and in front of his warriors?

Out of spite, he slaps the helpless young man at his feet.

"Pull yourself together! You are fucking deplorable!" But the degrading words don't make him react; instead of getting up he lowers his head, his eyes shining with tears not shed where Gawain expected to find a challenge. This only exacerbates the knight's ire; why doesn't he try to defend himself? Why does he refuse to give him the satisfaction of fighting? Offering him the pretext he is so desperately waiting for to unleash his rage and break him again... This weak and weeping thing is not what he wants at the moment; not like this, _not unless he has decided it_ \- he has no right to submit to anyone but himself. _That's the dignity you should expect from a dog_ \- Gawain thinks bitterly.

Overflowing with frustration, Gawain grabs the back of the monk's cloak and pulls, forcing him to trip on his hands and knees as he tries to get up, to follow his quick step to the tent.

Once under the cover of the canvas walls of Lancelot's tent, the knight pushes the drunken young man forward and the latter falls hard to the ground before getting up to face him, hesitating; Doubt and apprehension give him a fragile, almost touching air. Then, advancing towards him, the Ashman surprises the knight by clutching his fingers in the fine fabric of his shirt, the warmth of his body irradiating through the clothes that separate their skins, and Lancelot has the audacity to raise his head with the clear intention of placing his unfaithful lips on his own. - How can he do that after so avidly kissing Nataël? What right does he have to try to impose his perfidious will on him, _the Green Knight?_ Can he think for one moment that Gawain is at his disposal to satisfy his lustful fancies, provoked by another and encouraged by alcohol? 

With a scornful grin distorting his features, he slaps Lancelot again, this time more violently; the young man's nails scratch the fabric of his shirt as he is thrown backwards, falling to the ground again like a disarticulated puppet, his eyes wide open with surprise and fear. 

Against all odds, the Ashen starts to cry. When he tries to speak, his voice is only a whimper interspersed with sobs. He looks panicked - and everything about him, from the expression on his face to the movements of his body, suddenly seems _much younger._

  
"Forgive me - I promise, _I'll be a good boy_ \- don't hurt me _again_ \- I beg you." Words, however delightful they are, are disturbing... An unpleasant shiver runs down the knight's spine as he doesn't know how to react to the former monk's attitude. Then more weakly, Lancelot continues. _"Please, father."_

He remains stupefied, torn between the desire to hit him again and the more unexpected desire _to encourage him_ to continue on this path. Lancelot's words stir something in his stomach, a sensation of intoxicating heat and sick excitement invades him, adrenaline flows in his veins, making his heart beat faster, as if he was about to transgress something forbidden. The words of the Ashman make the thing inside him restless, this dark thing he can no longer control.

Lancelot, or at least the pitiful creature he is at that moment, begins to rub his face on the front of Gawain's breeches, with a strangely innocent softness, a candour tinged with sadness, as if he were seeking comfort in this gesture devoid of any lustful expectation; then with what seems to be resigned determination, the young man gropes to untie the laces that hold the knight's trousers in place.

Insidious and bewitching, the voice of the creature resounds in his head, encouraging him to take what is his due, but part of him refuses, a small green and shiny spark, which he thought had disappeared, pulsating deep in his conscience, trying to make him hear something important, _something he must know..._ What is he doing?

With a sudden sense of urgency, he grabs Lancelot's wrists and prevents him from continuing, pushing him away abruptly as if his contact had burned him. The young man cowering, frightened and vulnerable, desperate. Tears stream down his cheeks as he begins to recite incomprehensible prayers, the words following one another without beginning or end, interspersed with sobs, sniffles and shallow breaths; The voice of the Ashman is only a panicked murmur and Gawain looks on in dismay - This is probably the first time he has heard him talk so much.

"Please father - _you don't have to do this_ \- forgive me father - because I have sinned - forgive me my trespasses - I implore your mercy..." 

This miserable thing, curled up on the ground and whining, cannot be the legendary Weeping Monk, the most powerful warrior of the paladins, the feared enemy of the Fey. What has he done to this man whose name was enough to make children tremble in their beds, make women cry, and barricade their doors any Fey endowed with a modicum of good sense? Where is the terrible murderer who has hunted down and massacred his people for years? The ruthless swordsman who has defeated him would finally be just _a poor broken and lost boy calling out for his father?_ No - Gawain refuses to admit this. The monk is responsible for everything he has done and it is not a panic attack that will absolve him of the atrocities that weigh on his black soul.

The knight takes a step in the direction of Lancelot, with the intention of jolting him, forcing him to come to his senses; the young man cowering on his knees, his head down, raises his eyes as he approaches, a haunted, _terrified_ _glance_. Gawain can see his chest rise and fall at an alarming speed, in search of air, his hands shaking and his chalk-white face as he raises one hand to grab Lancelot's shoulder. Despite everything, the monk does not move away, submissive and resigned to suffering the punishment of the man he thinks is his father.

An impulse of pity catches him off guard, stopping his gesture.The guilt and pain he feels at the sight of this sad, broken thing grips his heart, as the monstrous voice groans in his skull, low, powerful, making the walls of his tired mind quiver like the roar of a gigantic animal straight out of a nightmare. ' _Are you still fighting Green Knight? Why don't you give in? You could finally be at peace, reach the twilight you so desperately yearn for. Abandon and I will free you for good from the burden that life represents for you.'_

Lancelot's shirt is dirty with emesis, he can see it under his half-open cape; the sour, acid smell makes him frown. With an exhausted sigh, the knight crouches down in front of the prostrate young man. He doesn't know what drives him to do this, but he cannot bring himself to let him wallow in his filth, alone and broken... Perhaps it is because he has the unpleasant impression that he has already seen this - that he has already _experienced it,_ in a different way, but the similarities between the two are too obvious for him not to notice.

He holds out his hand and reaches for a piece of the grey cloak, pulling it away from the trembling Ashen's body, which begins to whine faintly as if he were _physically suffering_ from this simple gesture. He stretches out his hand and grasps a section of the grey cloak, pulling it away from the trembling ashen body, which begins to groan weakly as if it were physically suffering from this simple gesture, the quivering of his hands intensifying uncontrollably. The cape falls with a soft noise into the dust behind the kneeling form; as he begins to undo the lanyard that closes the top of the linen shirt, Lancelot's fine, icy fingers wrap gently around his forearms, he does not hold him back, does not push him away, a simple touch, soft and imploring like the voice of the young man.

"Please Father, whip me or do whatever you want to me but not that, it's a _sin_ \- it _hurts."_ An unpleasant thought is tormenting him - if it was only a sham, a game of manipulation designed to coax Gawain, as Nataël thinks? He lets out a sigh full of derision, withdrawing his wrists from the febrile and timid contact; Lancelot's hands fall back as if he were unable to support their weight. How can he pronounce words like that? How can he show such _hypocrisy?_ In a dry voice tinged with scornful mockery, Gawain repeats Lancelot's words.

"Suffering purifies you." The Ashen's eyes widen with familiar words and he suddenly seems to wake up, frowning and confused as he recognises the Green Knight crouching before him.A glimmer of anger briefly illuminates his pupils, a reminder of the wild animal lurking somewhere deep inside him, ready to pounce, just as the fragile shell of fear, doubt and conditioned submission crumbles. - Here it is, the prey that the knight stalks. Because, where is the pleasure in dominating a creature already tamed? It is this glimpse of the dangerous savagery that dwells in Lancelot that he was waiting for, and this vision ignites his cold and dead heart - Lancelot is still there, there is still something to be ripped off, to be broken, _to be submitted._ "These are your words when you let me die at the hands of your red brothers. They also apply to you, it seems to me... Or is it only valid for the others?" The knight's lips twist into a simulated smile, a sarcastic, scornful grin. He barely has time to see the guilt and shame in Lancelot's eyes before he bows his head, hiding from the blaming gaze. Gawain stands up, dominating the monk from all his height, listening to the pathetic excuses that escape from his so treacherously _attractive lips._

"I'm sorry, so sorry... You don't know how I regret, Gawain." It's not enough - _it will never be enough._ It's nothing but wind, meaningless words coming out of a traitor's mouth - _a lie._ The rage that had subsided resurfaces, bubbling, and the venom spurts out of the knight's mouth like an explosion of molten lava that devours everything in its path. 

"Oh really? And what do I care about your regrets? Do you think they will erase what you did? Will they bring the dead back to life? Will they bring _my sister back to me_? I should have revealed your true nature when I had the chance, I will have died with the satisfaction of _seeing you burn!_ " Discovering his teeth in a grimace of disgust, the knight adds in a tone that resentment makes caustic. "In the end, your father was right, monk - whether you are sincere or not doesn't make any difference, you will live with your crimes, and no amount of suffering will be enough to save your soul... _Even if that doesn't stop me from chastising you again and again for your sins."_

Admiring with satisfaction the fear on the face streaked with black tears at the understanding of what the threat implies, Gawain turns away from the wretched creature that lies, annihilated, at his feet; he heads for the exit of the tent when the barely audible voice of the Ashen stops him in his impulse.

"Please, Gawain - don't do this. I know I don't deserve your mercy - I probably deserve everything that happens to me... But _I beg you,_ don't do that... It hurts _too much_ when _it's you_."

The knight doesn't turn around, he doesn't need to do so to imagine Lancelot's gaze, painfully veiled by the ghosts of the past. He knows what will happen if he looks at him, he knows that the anger he feels will take over because what the monk has said is true - he doesn't deserve his mercy; Lancelot has no right to manipulate him by invoking the false and unhealthy love he has convinced himself he feels for Gawain. - it is not love, it is only an instinctive and irrational need to belong to someone, _to be someone else's object,_ controlled and used so as not to have to face up to his acts - it is only _cowardice_. Gawain won't let him hide behind his denial, a pale echo of servile obedience to his father, who has been his alibi for years - he's no longer good enough to give him that relief. Tilting his head to the side with a sigh of disillusioned irony, he speaks in a calm and cold voice, in total contradiction to the devastating emotions that overwhelm him.

"Do you even know what they did to me when you left?" The knight lets out a brief, dry breath, hardly containing the whirlwind of emotions, closing his eyelids by shaking his head, an ironic smile painfully drawing on his lips without being able to make the corners of his mouth rise. "No, of course you don't know..." His voice breaks, hoarse, heavy with resentment, _accusatory._ "They untied me, and I believed it was an act of compassion... But it was just one more humiliation; a way of showing me that even free of my moves I was nothing! Just a bloody puppet in their hands, a corpse still warm enough for what they wanted."

Gawain turns around, the shame burning painfully in his chest, still intense as on the first day. He suddenly feels the need to capture Lancelot's gaze, _to make him understand_. He doesn't seek to pity him, nor to justify his own cruelty... Simply to make him aware of the scope of his actions - everything that has happened is his fault. _Look, and see what you've done with me._

But the young man lowered his head, fleeing from the green flame burning in the knight's remaining eye as if he was afraid of what he was going to say, embarrassed to hear this confession - _as if he already knew the end of the story._ A frustration that he does not understand, in the face of Lancelot's refusal to accept, in the face of _rejection_ , makes him raise his voice. Gawain hates himself for the tremors that make his words flicker; he hates himself for the weakness and the need to share the crushing weight that pushes him to speak, stronger than the shame itself.

"They _laughed_ while they stole what _little dignity_ I had remaining! _My suffering_ gave them _pleasure!_ They didn't give me the decent death I was waiting for, _they defiled me until the end_." Moving forward until his feet touch the monk's knees, he grips his chin in his hand, pushing his fingers into the muscles of his jaw, forcing him to raise his face towards him, to look at him. "So tell me - why should I give you an ounce of consideration?"

Lancelot looks at him with empty eyes and it is suddenly as if the hollow in his chest were filling up again, as if the knight were blossoming on the rubble of this broken soul, sucking in its vital essence - _like an hourglass,_ one side must inexorably be emptied for the other to fill up... But never totally, never definitively, because if one of the two sides breaks, then the object becomes _useless._

Satisfied and feeling alive, Gawain leaves the tent without a glance back. The beast is full and soothed, _perhaps she will let him sleep tonight at last._


End file.
